sit and write
my calves are sore from moving metal plates.
my silent apartment motionless,
and with unconscious breath i sit and wait.
for what, i do not know
for my brain to will my legs to move,
for my heart to will my mind to will my hands
to create something new.
it seems i have forgotten color,
that i know not what to do with myself while i am alone.
it seems i have forgotten shape: the morphology of the counter-tops, of the blushing-apple trees
don’t feel like home.
perhaps i have figured out this perpetual obsession
with an unknown eve –
should i begin to walk at night,
braving the darkness, the whisper of leaves?
all that i know is that right now i feel
emptied, cracked, rushed, like water boiling too fast on the stove.
so today i called my brother, but he was busy
beginning a life that is now fully his own.
earl grey tea is a misnomer
it’s really more of a deep brown and it’s definitely not an earl
in my pauper’s cup.
i wake up, head throbbing, lie there between the white sheets
like a ghost, feeling the sensations
of warmth and hunger and fog.
the hunger, really, is unearned –
somehow i still see eating as a transaction, a sacrifice my body makes
one which i probably don’t deserve.
somehow despite the strong curves of my body
i still need to justify
adding cream to my coffee.
today there is a potato festival in Ebensburg, Pennsylvania
i want to set a personal record for the amount of potato i can eat
in a single day.
when you leave in the morning,
the faint scent of you remains on our bed for just a few breaths.
i remember meeting you,
falling asleep in your arms and thinking
how right it felt, although i’d known you
if we’re being generous.
light plays on the floor
we’re missing a tabby cat
to bask there all day.
the last two scoops of coffee
go into the maker, which i need to clean with vinegar
because its scent is that of a thousand cups of coffee
from a thousand mornings.
i wish you were here to share
these last two cups with me,
but you are sending melodies into the morning air
as you should be.
i bike up the hill in the cool of the morning
thinking today will turn into a scorcher.
it’s the autumn equinox and
my soul still screams summer, probably because
i’m wearing shorts and sweating.
i look for coziness in a warming world where
we have no need for quilts.
i look for reasons to drink hot cider
from a mug
but find myself choosing a chilled froth instead.
i wonder if i will be different this winter
if my days will slow down and i’ll listen more deeply to the
beating of my lover’s heart
or will i only grow busier, afraid to slow down,
afraid to miss some tantalizing material drug that keeps me sedated
from the realities of life?
i want to listen more deeply to the beating
of my lover’s drum
because the scent of his skin is always sweeter
after he’s been in the sun
it gets me drunker than rum.
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