sleep cycle
A first thought each morning of
how I can produce,
what can I finish,
how will I bring value add profit grow the market—
brushed aside with the
crust of sleep out of my eyes.
An ache in my shoulder
from sleeping too hard
through a dream
of not having enough time
to do the task
that is just a step
in a process
no one has questioned and
so must be done
to meet the expectation
of a chart that was forgotten
in a slide shown once.
A mental note that I
need to buy cat food,
need to buy toothpaste,
need to buy bread,
need to buy coffee.
need to buy—
need to—
need—
A sigh at the first sip of coffee
taken from the floor; yoga mat
forgotten in favor of
the rug I loved
from that ad
I was targeted for
but I can’t be mad,
the algorithm has me
quantified correctly.
Someone somewhere
hits the target in their own
forgotten chart on their own
forgotten slide,
our fates connected through
time and distance as
artisan and patron.
A tap on a screen on an ad for a dress
I know I could make
but my time will be used—
spent—tracked—catalogued—
for more important
quarterly goals than
clothing myself.
An hour—two hours—
staring at the ceiling
waiting for my body
to let go into sleep,
to let go of forgotten
charts on forgotten
slides of forgotten
work
done by
forgotten
people.
house on the corner
I am the house on the corner—the aged siding a brighter tone
than one would expect given the otherwise gloomy facade, tall
lawn beginning to seed, windows shuttered and dusty, roof
edged in ornamentation that feels out of place in this neighborhood.
The house on the corner is time—plants they call weeds overtaking
and blooming despite glares from passerby’s, the mailbox nudged aside
by stubborn blackberry vines, hedges reaching out of their lines, moss
creeping for the ornamentation that feels out of place in this neighborhood.
The house on the corner is hermitage—snails leaving their criss-crossed
paths over the front walk that’s otherwise unoccupied, unmade butterflies
tucked safely away waiting patiently for warmer days, spiders laying in wait,
gorging themselves in the ornamentation that feels out of place in this neighborhood.
The house on the corner is me—an inheritance waiting to be given
to a stranger we hope may take more care, a memory of a different, less
vibrant time, standing on stolen land while feeling stolen from itself, always seen
carrying the ornamentation that feels out of place in this neighborhood.
elegy for before
I buried my heart in the dirt—to keep it safe,
I said; so it doesn’t bruise, I thought; not knowing
that hearts have a way of taking root even when
you forget about them. Forgetting my heart was
an act of love—the me I was before needed the
silence of an empty ribcage to begin to
understand how much a beating heart shapes the
music of every moment. From my heart has grown a
bramble—vines twist around each bone, through joints but the
thorns are falling off now, and the vines have buds, and I think
I know now how to water the roots so the buds can bloom.
I will replant my heart where it belongs—opening
my chest again to the elements, trusting that the
new roots are stronger than the ones I’d grown before.
cartography
Standing still with my spyglass,
peering at the hills and trees
that stretch across my mind;
Noting the stars above me and
measuring the rainfall at my feet—
I am a cartographer, mapping
the boundaries of my fear.
This shifting landscape fogs and
clears and fogs again, as my future
becomes less and more murky.
Fear morphs, and my maps
are ever useless; Just as I add the
final flourishes to my diligent work
these hills before me climb into
mountains; The path under my
soul moves to make way for new trees
and wind around newly unearthed stones.
Forging ahead with my half-drawn map
I listen for telltale signs of life in this
evolving habitat of my mind’s design;
Is that a bird?
A babbling brook?
No—a shift—and I stand still
with my spyglass, eying the horizon
again.