it is easy enough

it is easy enough to make a mistake, to choose the wrong route on your way to work. there’s an accident up ahead. cars lined in a row of snaking ants, idling their invisible exhaust. you are late; you always are. it could mean your job, your apartment, a cascading list of loss. there is an accident. you are the accident. you only looked down for a moment to change the radio station. to rid yourself of the announcer’s voice, his message of a perfect mattress, a good nights sleep. when was the last time you slept. really slept. you are only 40 but you feel 50. 90. pick a number. something to scare yourself with. dying. your mother died young. everyone in your family dies young. your attention is somewhere between the radio and oblivion when you feel weight of your car slamming into something unmoving ahead. your head slamming into something unmoving. everything rushing toward an impenetrable future. an easy enough mistake to make. it is dusk. you are not working, haven’t worked in some time. you are drinking. drinking and driving. it is the best combination of things. you can sit quietly with your bottle and watch the world display itself shamelessly through the glass. some things should be hidden. all the wires, cables, power lines. it is indecent. grey intestines roping loosely from an opening in some poor sod’s waist. perhaps it is your waist. you reach down to be sure, touch the familiar distension. one hand on the bottle the other on your swollen belly. the car steers itself, but requires the weight of your foot on the accelerator to propel it forward. you lift your foot, take another sip. the road is empty. the night descending. you close your eyes. try to remember the feel of someone holding you. the seat holds you, the seat belt drawing its arm across your chest. humming now a song you once knew. something about starlight. who knew such beauty could inhabit something already dead.

every day

every day dawn finds herself naked and wonders if she has not in fact lost herself entirely in the night, her clothes, precepts, selfhood. what sovereignty can allow the proposition of love, some penetrated interiority. in this new and sudden opening there is the fragile pink of sky. the lip of wind. dawn is not alone in her discomfort. the sun too is heavy with the previous day’s misfortunes. neither can bear the tentative movement of the other. she would withdraw safely into the darkness but sun is thick limbed, blocking the door. dawn walks backward towards the window, her legs shimmering with light. she will fall. she always does. upward, into the buoyancy of it. there will be witnesses. it does not matter who. for dawn there is only the swarm of light, the heady rush of it. everything else is incidental.