January 2025
Ah! The rain wears on my mind.
I tell myself it does not, tell myself the black of the afternoon
is normal this time of day. It is January, after all. Tomorrow,
there will be light again. Tomorrow, it will not affect me so.
And again, the tears stream.
Good thing it is raining; my eyes aren’t the only ones
incapable of holding it in.
My brain was never one
to look through the fog. Is it not special? This grief,
that stays, I hope,
forever,
cause he is one that deserves to be grieved
until the worms feast.
Like my rug, I feel
trampled, beaten to the ground where I lie flat on the cold laminated floor
of my apartment. I cannot get up.
Up close, there are mites. And dust and hair,
maybe more than there are on my head. I have thin hair.
How does the rug sell? It needs a deep-clean.
But it is stuck, glued to the fake wooden panels,
glued like my cheek to the fiber that moves in patterns, up and down,
side to side, shaken, stirred, around, above, below, all the way through. My head aches.
If the mites live freely in the fiber,
so can I. Can I? Can I?
My limbs are hurt, but pain never stopped me before.
I fold my legs next to my body. One,
and two; there.
Two arms to go. Do they reach? Do they bend?
They collapse, and it works,
cause they collapse against my body.
Oh, but the head. It stings,
carpet-burn blood trickles and vanishes in the red of the rug and
there I lie.
It is December and so I think of God. He turns up every now and then, but in December I can’t help it. I spent Christmas eve at Church, for Christ’s sake.
Does the baby ever feel like everyone is watching him?
Does his mother take away his mental load?
Or is he just a baby, just the flesh and bones of the almighty. I say just, for aren’t we all merely flesh, and bone?
And is my mother not almightier than him?
Can he do no good?
Is there more to it?
I’m tired, and I think that is my answer.
Goodnight, Christ;
‘till next year.
Iris Elske 