XLIII. A Suburb of Empty Space.

Tiredness in a Tuesday, worn since the last time it was tired.

Tired of the next thing, the next thing, the next thing, the—

body consents when the mind has not:

an old contract drafted in cells,

agreed to

the way infants agree to gravity, by falling,

repeatedly,

until a stranger calls it

instinct.

Matter is femur, is filament,

is atoms holding a shape called me,

a rumour of solidity—

this body a rich suburb of empty space,

held together by forces with no stake in keeping

me.

The neighbour's cat, chasing its own tail on the lawn,

delighted, still, by the same trick.

I wonder, precisely, what the matter is with—

The phone lights up with Arthur's name.

one of the next things, arriving early.

It stops. Then starts again. Then stops.

One less thing until the next thing.

Every day is Tuesday, wearing a different date.

Tired of the next thing, the next thing, the next thing, the—

same hair, matted.

Same blanket.

Same tea, grown a fuzzy skin.

My hopes find my chest and settle there,

kneading once,

twice,

purring uninvited,

deliberately,

and never because it's warm.

For what it’s worth,

-Charlene Iris

One thought at a time.