The Bilmar

by Mckenzie Baker

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finger tips pad softly on phone screens and
one of those channels that comes on late 
and sells old and newer things 
shines light into my eyelids.
a top sheet traps me from turning
and I pick seashells from my teeth.
the ocean outside the second-floor 
window speeds to the waves 
of the liquid in my ear, 
making me dizzy. 

my dad snores, so loud
he shakes sound, making me spin
again. i am afraid he will choke
on salt or spit or sand or sad 
splashes that have drifted in. 
i feel sick in a room
meant for two or four, 
all five of us filtered
in white TV light. 

people who have left the kids
 in the room to go swim and drink beer 
prune in the hotel pool.
they fling curse words into the lukewarm 
air, desperate to impress one another 
if only for a moment–
their voices scratchy and overexposed.

i am sure i am hearing things i am not
meant to hear – things only grown
ups filled full with beer in pools 
next to beaches dare to whisper  
it feels so nice to be alone, we shouldn’t 
have brought the kids, doesn’t it?, another 
one,  please, another one 

---

Mckenzie Baker is a writer from Atlanta, GA. She likes doing things that most people do -- like eating good food and going to the movies. Her work has been featured in HuffPost and 3to4oz, the undergraduate literary magazine at Wake Forest. She occasionally posts on instagram at @kenziewritingthings.