Luxury Index
by Amra Brooks
It is yesterday, on the acupuncture table, coming in and out of a dream and hovering in between. It is the moxa she burned on the head of the needle in my belly.
It is the house that we have been staying in for free while our home is being repaired.
It is two perfect avocados that we mashed into guacamole for tacos.
It is sharing the tacos with neighbors and it is the mango I didn’t have to share.
It is watching the rain fall on the river from my window while my son is at school. It is the school.
It is falling asleep late in the evening while reading a chapter about grief. It is the bed. It is the roof.
It is the irises I cut in the garden before the rain, their midnight purple and rust heads hanging heavy.
It is the cucumber and zucchini and snap pea and nasturtium and marigold seeds I pushed into the wet soil yesterday with my fingers. It is the lettuce I harvested and washed and the slugs I threw. It is the peonies my neighbor brought me with their pink blooms like crepe paper.
It is time this morning to fall back asleep after toweling off wet dogs and letting them nose under the covers. It is the feel of my dog’s pink and gray spotted belly, the white tuft of cottony fur on his chest. It is socks with no holes. It is clean black underwear. It is the doctor I call on the weekend.
It is the pink tourmaline ring my father made me for my birthday, an oval raspberry.
It is the space that opens in my chest when I remember to close my eyes and sit still for five minutes. It is five minutes.
It is when my hips get loose.
It is my son’s curly head on my shoulder while we both read books on the sofa.
It is the first sip of tea. It is the stories that are shared with me.
It is being able to listen.
It is remembering the thing I thought I forgot.
It is surviving the thing I thought I could not.
It is the skin on my son’s back when he lifts up his red shirt for me to rub it while I sing to him. It is that I am here to do it for one minute longer when he says don’t go.
It is watching his belly breathe in and out while he looks through the kaleidoscope, the same belly I have watched for eleven years.
It is our breath.
It is the feel of his forehead against my lips.
It is letting him stay on the dock and try to catch the big fish and not do homework.
It is being able to find my glasses.
It is the milky pink glasses that help me see these words.
It is being seen.
It is being here to watch the whites of my best friend's eyes turn the color of turmeric.
It is holding her when she asked me to hold her, her husband and kids watching us, the room growing smaller.
It is the lock of her blonde hair on my bookshelf.
It is her feet I held while I was on my knees.
It is being able to say thank you. It is being able to say I’m sorry. It is being able to say I don’t know what I am going to do without you.
It is taking her children outside into their yard and wrapping my arms around them when they take her body away.
It is the bombs that will not drop here today.
It is you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you.
It is us alive.
It is my child.
Alive.
It is the house that we have been staying in for free while our home is being repaired.
It is two perfect avocados that we mashed into guacamole for tacos.
It is sharing the tacos with neighbors and it is the mango I didn’t have to share.
It is watching the rain fall on the river from my window while my son is at school. It is the school.
It is falling asleep late in the evening while reading a chapter about grief. It is the bed. It is the roof.
It is the irises I cut in the garden before the rain, their midnight purple and rust heads hanging heavy.
It is the cucumber and zucchini and snap pea and nasturtium and marigold seeds I pushed into the wet soil yesterday with my fingers. It is the lettuce I harvested and washed and the slugs I threw. It is the peonies my neighbor brought me with their pink blooms like crepe paper.
It is time this morning to fall back asleep after toweling off wet dogs and letting them nose under the covers. It is the feel of my dog’s pink and gray spotted belly, the white tuft of cottony fur on his chest. It is socks with no holes. It is clean black underwear. It is the doctor I call on the weekend.
It is the pink tourmaline ring my father made me for my birthday, an oval raspberry.
It is the space that opens in my chest when I remember to close my eyes and sit still for five minutes. It is five minutes.
It is when my hips get loose.
It is my son’s curly head on my shoulder while we both read books on the sofa.
It is the first sip of tea. It is the stories that are shared with me.
It is being able to listen.
It is remembering the thing I thought I forgot.
It is surviving the thing I thought I could not.
It is the skin on my son’s back when he lifts up his red shirt for me to rub it while I sing to him. It is that I am here to do it for one minute longer when he says don’t go.
It is watching his belly breathe in and out while he looks through the kaleidoscope, the same belly I have watched for eleven years.
It is our breath.
It is the feel of his forehead against my lips.
It is letting him stay on the dock and try to catch the big fish and not do homework.
It is being able to find my glasses.
It is the milky pink glasses that help me see these words.
It is being seen.
It is being here to watch the whites of my best friend's eyes turn the color of turmeric.
It is holding her when she asked me to hold her, her husband and kids watching us, the room growing smaller.
It is the lock of her blonde hair on my bookshelf.
It is her feet I held while I was on my knees.
It is being able to say thank you. It is being able to say I’m sorry. It is being able to say I don’t know what I am going to do without you.
It is taking her children outside into their yard and wrapping my arms around them when they take her body away.
It is the bombs that will not drop here today.
It is you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you.
It is us alive.
It is my child.
Alive.
Amra Brooks writes creative nonfiction, poetry, as well as essays and reviews about contemporary art. Her memoir Your Beginning and Your End is forthcoming from Dopamine Books in 2026. Her novella California was published by Cali Thornhill DeWitt’s Teenage Teardrops in 2008. Her writing has appeared in Artforum, Inventory, Khôra, Printeresting, Entropy, This Long Century, and many other publications. She grew up in California and has taught creative writing at the University of California in Santa Cruz and San Diego, and Muhlenberg College. She now lives in Providence, Rhode Island and directs the creative writing program at Stonehill College in Easton, MA where she is an Associate Professor. She curates the Raymo Literary Series and co-produces The Electro-Library podcast. https://www.amra-brooks.com/