[November 9]

Friday afternoon my body said slow down
so here I am, and I’ve got a whole head of cabbage
and two cucumbers in the fridge still
but I’m not eating them, and I’m not eating them
and I’m not eating them. I am coffee, I am
udon noodles, I am back-to-the-beginning,
I am lying on the floor of my apartment
wishing it were the earth. I don’t know
what it is. Too little iron, too much salt.
I am my blood pressure. I can see my pulse
in my neck even though my heart is hidden now
under layers of muscle, fat, and bone.
It’s safer there. The days are getting colder
but the sun is rising earlier. Morning is the best time.
When everything is silent but I am not alone.
And I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss
the glow of city lights outside our tenth-story
window, but there’s something to be said
for the suburbs. Or whatever this place is.
We’ll take this one day at a time. My arms get stronger
because I inflict controlled damage upon the muscle fibers
and when they heal they are bigger, more coordinated.
Stress equals strength, equilibrium is tied to momentum.
In the end, all I am is art.


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