Forecast
By Camille Rankine
I twist myself into a knot
the day pulls taut.
I am what I am
told. Good red meat
gone necrotic. A spot of black
spread out to ruin
a perfect evening. It’s the way
the weather wears me.
A cold, blank day. My blood-
burned fingers. A white noise
swelling in me. It’s nothing
but night now. That’s how
all the days end. An hour
glistens in its glass case, turns
rancid in my memory.
Another day, another
dress the day lays out
before me. I grow older
if I’m lucky.
And I’m lucky.
My sad heart in its excess.
Such petty injury. I am worn
against the weather. Limp and prone
to empty.
What came before this.
I can’t remember.
I dress for all the lives I want
behind me. I have come here
to make seen the day
I see. I fall from focus.
The day goes sour. It asks me
nothing. It asks nothing of me.
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I had a bunch of chores to do on Monday -- laundry, cat stuff, hooks for hats -- so I got that done while
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