xo

The door is slightly ajar, mostly closed. A minor draft grazes around edges. Natural light dwindles and dissipates, grey time passing by. A distant echo of laughter. It comes through the walls. It bounces and splits, circles solid states. It loiters in her faculties, creates a rupture. The longevity of softness and then he said a funny thing, again. Filtered by brick and plaster and framed picture and radiator and bed head. He said a funny thing, again, now music. She finds lint in a pocket. A hole in the knee. A satsuma on the night stand. Above the satsuma a small lamp in green, she presses index finger against switch. Now, applause. She walks to the window where the grey light seeps, feels something underfoot. Now, something about detergent. It’s a sock. She stares at a pile of stained mattresses a broken sofa half a bookshelf a CD rack and a hoover, ruined with dew. She closes the curtains on all that. Turns her back. Returns to the pile of fabric which, earlier, was hung and clumped in drawers and wardrobes and draped over chairs. He said a funny thing, again. Oh ha ha ha. It comes in a fraction, staggering behind. Languid pant legs sprawl over thick knit. This yes, that no. A refuse bag lays by the mound. This yes equals over there; that no equals in the bag. This chiffon worn on a good day so yes, over there. That wool couldn’t stand the wash, it’s sweeter now but no, in the bag. Everyone has a bag. Now, the news. She remembers the storm. And the effort. The satsuma’s shadow elliptical. A dress for best. Refractions through a glass tumbler on the sideboard. The lamp captures and casts. The wall aglow in certain segments, billows sentiment. She worries, after the conversation that her language had ran away from her - slipped quickly ungraciously down her front and stained her blouse. Three cardigans in a row that are a yes, primary shades. Maybe, I hold on to things too long. The fork and spoon from dinner. A petite knife untouched. Some things are like trying to bend metal. She hates metaphors. Stain on sleeve. Now, bellows. Across, opposite, parallel motivational poster wake up it’s a beautiful day. This slip means sex so yes, over there. In tangent, muddy dark in uncanny shapes expand and contract. No they don’t. A knot of stray threads. She’s seen this before. Still I wonder about, she hears, through the brick and plaster and framed picture and radiator and bed head. Bottle cap in breast pocket. Does the satsuma roll of its own accord. She walks around and picks up the sock. In the dream she dropped things more than she usually does. She couldn’t hold a cup long enough to drink from, it slipped from beneath her grip. A growl from behind the exterior wall. Someone is angry, somewhere. How did this get here. Some questionable presence. Place it elsewhere. These shorts say nothing is never again. So yes, over there. More habitual than hungry, she pierces the satsuma with index finger nail. Would it annoy you if I peel all the pith. She has been placing less importance in certain things like finishing anything. Pith strewn in clumps and splinters across veneer under lamplight makes tracks and maps of trappings. Peel smells good fresh equal parts sour and sweet. Chewing, watching dust. To the side, half read borrowed book. Tomorrow. Now, white noise, resting. She continues to file to dispose and compose. A life lived in textures. This too heavy, that too light for use. The song in the waiting room at the doctors surgery breaks in through a window. Not a real window. She enjoys symbology and DJ mixes. Those who live below a doctors surgery make love under sickness. A bad pattern. Insipid yellow. An unfitting flare. She weighs the castaways, still supported by plastic. The elastic has worn out here, stretch stretch, no not for good. A porcelain ornament of two cats curled. One and an other a guide a channel. This t-shirt means a categorical allegory of kinship. Receipt in the fold. And I couldn’t feel my leg, he had said. And he shook it and wouldn’t stop shaking. I danced for 16 minutes, she had said. And ached all over for days. Inactivity ekstasis. Brooch on lapel. A woman folds. And the bus driver, those shoes look that comfortable. They are apart from the rubbing just above the right heal. This anterior ankle. From when the socks had a hole. Gone now. But. It won’t heal. A woman makes hollows. Something is happening. A woman creates an ingress for further accumulation and the potential of repeat performances. While others sleep in adjacent places.

Fold, Fray
December 2017

Drawings & a text.
= a book

Built with Berta.me