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Now reading
Blades of Grace
I wake up each morning desperate for another body. instead, the house cools with blue windows. my lone carpet, my humidifier. what I’d give to touch another spine, a hand, to sing into a temple. there is a cap on the world now, so I unscrew a jar of peanut butter & dip a spoon back into my mouth. touch and go. taste and swallow. sweet blades of grace. I mean grass. what are words but soft patterns, routine? I swing my legs beyond the bed. I read: torch, tooth, touch. crouch, crawl, crater. cranium, crash, cracker. I twist my mouth into shapes and perform consonants and vowels, my voice creaky & loud for nobody. just daylight, a touchstone way of measuring time. the sky softens me with yellow. the sky softens, & I am soft. soothed. every day, I go beyond the bed only to make more typos. grace, grass. touch, torch. I brush the jade plant with the back of my hand. I flash my teeth into an open mirror. tired, desire stares back. outside, the world swells with rain, emptied of human touch.