Poetry

An associate directs me to Virginia Woolf’s essay. It is an act of kindness, I suppose, but the solace I seek is not there.

Finding the edges of functionality when sick is not contagious

The objects of my life are laid bare Outdoors, on a small blue table

Braille raised on banisters like gnarled tree trunks canes tapping sounds like nightmare-fueled insects

If only they searched for her.

My thigh is a map of my pain.

In a sea of brown, a single leaf shines  yellow and red. 

Alpacas, I discovered recently, chew in a very wide and exaggerated way. They really articulate their chewing. Chomp. I love that my dog eats like an alpaca.

A tunnel closing to a pinprick of light  with me trapped inside.