by Jackie Lea Sommers & T.S. Eliot
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
And so have I.
Not enough spoons for a week like this one.
Not enough for this month, this year.
This is our unit of measurement,
or maybe Eliot himself,
the tired ones everywhere
who use the word chronic to describe
along both sides of the spine.
Feel the sweat drip
down the neck of a body that can’t cool.
The girl in the bed
She is like the night.
like a subwoofer
underneath the pale, freckled skin.
I could throw them from me like candy in a parade.
I was younger and in love with
Now I watch
for any glint of metal,
any strobe of silver,
for my collection of spoons,
the currency of this girl
Did a bunch of doctory stuff this week and feel like I am getting closer to some answers about why I’ve been feeling so fatigued and achy. Might be fibromyalgia. I am overwhelmed.
Getting closer on this draft.
Getting closer on some work stuff.
Getting closer on figuring out some new routines.
Getting closer to a cleared to-do list and an empty inbox.
… but days like today (full of sleep and aches) make everything close feel far.
Sorry if this post makes no sense.