Inventory of the Collapse
Today
jumper cables coiled beside his inhalers rain in the crawlspace the old shipping trunk iron corners blackened from hands older than the apartment maybe older than the country we became inside it I fed it carefully today road flares dog restraints trickle chargers camp stove parts the emergency layer all the little preparations for surviving distance heaving again room tilting sideways like the jeep on that mountain road outside Ukiah mezcal in the coffee just enough to keep touching things one Trader Joe’s bag full of lipsticks dried rosewater spray a dead flashlight receipts from gas stations that do not remember us I crawled the floor again unhinged sorting extension cords from the remains of devotion his final inhalers still inside the zipper pouch I closed that bag immediately before the room could split open the dogs everywhere still window grates old leashes dust silvered with shepherd fur their bodies gone years now but the truck still remembering them under blankets under jumper cables under the roadside atlas under the ruin another pound of weed still fragrant still green enough to accuse me of surviving outside the garbage bags waiting inside the trunk finally breathing shut like an animal fed everything I could no longer carry
Yes. This is strength, here.
Each line a detonation. I feel this. May you fold yourself gently today. 🍀