PHYSICS OF A DAUGHTER IN SURVIVAL

In this universe, water is only water and does not dilute whiskey.
In another there are 116 ways to pet a dog; the way
he, in this one, kicks my small schnauzer does not appear.
Two universes over, housesfires consume wood, some metals,
cans of food, school photos, but never drunk dads.
Four universes under he teaches me, tiny-toothed, to fight
gravity, to ride a bike, to fall down and bleed. In our universe,
please, can he still be fishing for channel cats off the back of the boat?
In the universe adjacent, he calls me to check,
hey, how much salt in that one chicken recipe?
Why couldn’t we have loved harder in this universe,
more robustly?
Why can’t I forgive; let the red maple burn then drop its leaves?

Erica Anderson-Senter lives and writes in Fort Wayne, Indiana. She earned her MFA from the Writing Seminars at Bennington College. Her work has appeared in OFF THE COAST, K’IN, and MIDWESTERN GOTHIC among others. She is a high school English and Creative Writing teacher.