Fort Lauderdale
By Jenna Coote
The night he died, palm trees stood still in the thick heat,
Iguanas crept and lurched in the dark.
For now, I still have a father, I thought before entering,
But entering would prove me wrong.
I was seven months pregnant, feeling weightlessness.
He was free and so was I;
From doctor’s appointments, and scanxiety, and “read this New York Times article.”
I craved impossible beach vacations,
Frothy virgin pastel drinks of babymoons,
I grieved only in snatches and snippets,
I wrote eulogies, lifted dirt-laden shovels, and cleared out my cubicle,
I packed hospital bags and pre-washed baby clothes,
And waited.
Iguanas crept and lurched in the dark.
For now, I still have a father, I thought before entering,
But entering would prove me wrong.
I was seven months pregnant, feeling weightlessness.
He was free and so was I;
From doctor’s appointments, and scanxiety, and “read this New York Times article.”
I craved impossible beach vacations,
Frothy virgin pastel drinks of babymoons,
I grieved only in snatches and snippets,
I wrote eulogies, lifted dirt-laden shovels, and cleared out my cubicle,
I packed hospital bags and pre-washed baby clothes,
And waited.
Jenna Coote was born into a family of playwrights and authors and received her BFA in drama from Syracuse University. Combining a love for performance and writing, she took her work to the stage, bringing her own monologues to life in a performance at Abingdon Theatre in New York City. She resides in Brooklyn with her husband and daughter and always has a novel in her oversized handbag, just in case she finds a few minutes to read. You can find her on Instagram @packratpoems