#27. December, Maybe.

The days fall out of sequence again.

The fork appears before the hand,
then the window –
then the question:

‘Is this morning, or just another sentence with light in it?’

⸻

Someone says something kind.
She touches it with gloves on.

The compliment writhes a little.
She leaves it on the counter.
Later, it becomes a drawer.
She labels it ‘misc’
and never checks what it stands for.

⸻

There was a time she almost left everything.
Something in her shifted – lightly,
to see if distance had a sound –
breath, drawn out.

⸻

Her body keeps placing memory in her teeth.
She chews around it.
It stays whole.
She pretends it’s a seed.

⸻

The mirror has dropped the act.
It shows her as she is:
a container of rooms,
some of which have not been opened.
Some of which cannot be re-entered
for what was left unsaid.

⸻

One of the rooms holds:
a chair,
a ledger,
a door.

She sits.
She listens.
She does not forgive.
She no longer explains.

⸻

She writes poems now.
A language
she doesn’t live in.
The dogs understand.
They tilt their heads
to a rhythm they seem to recognise.
They don’t mind the mistakes.

⸻

There’s a plan made of wires.
Thin ones.
They hum.

It ends in December.
Or begins.
Or folds.

⸻

She no longer distinguishes
between nearly free
and done performing collapse.

She once tried to scream that into a filing cabinet.
The drawer stuck.

She considered arson.
Lit a match in her mind.
Wondered what would catch first –
and held the flame still.

⸻

She sometimes dreams of being recognised
by no one in particular.
In the dream, someone claps.
Too soon.
She wakes before
the answer.