One evening when I go out for dinner with my father and his boyfriend,
they hold hands even though they’re sitting right beside
each other in the booth, and play footsie under the table
when they think I’m not looking.
And while we wait for the burgers and fries to arrive,
the good ol’ fashioned strawberry milkshakes that come with straws,
I think about the asteroid that’s supposed to crash into earth
two months from now, the one named after
the fourteen-year-old girl who drowned in Canada last year,
and how all the hippest scientists predict that it will obliterate
two-thirds of the human population
before dying into a pile of glowing embers
in some remote location.
Or how my father and his boyfriend always look at one another
like they’re seeing each other for the first time,
how I caught my father undressing him in my bedroom,
kissing him so hard against the wall
I thought they’d break a hole right through the plaster,
bruises forming in blue and yellow along his neck
where my father touched him.
And how even though we’re all probably going to die
in two months, the last thing the two of them will see
will be one anothers’ skin, and even an asteroid
couldn’t wipe out a love like that.