flat/running/hear/an end/last flat like an old soda flat like a shorn cornfield flat like a trampled daisy flat like a- flat like something that used to stick up / running and never stopping, in this muck my hands thrust fingers groping to seize something that will burn my hands and fucking spark / and can I hear the sound of water falling through your closed palms? and I can hear that pitter-patter of children on a jungle gym / find me a monument seal this moment in while it's still fresh take it now and make it forever let me taste it until my lips go all dusty / what value really is there in recovery stories when it/you never lasts/last? Interstitial And so what if there are seltzer cans on my counter and so what if my laundry lies coiled like a bloated snake upon my bathroom floor which is salted and peppered with used daily contact blisters and the mirror is frosted with toothpaste that I could easily remove but don't So what if my shirt is crinkled, so what if my nail polish is flaked and my food is prepared a la microwave and I mutter when I speak and my words are deflated sometimes I do not look you in the eye and is that because I don't have the energy or I don't want to and is there a choice in choosing to do less and agency in deciding that some days you put your sneakers on without undoing the laces so what if I live between being awake and being asleep there is a space before recovery but after needing your help there is a joy in waiting for the dawn on a cold night and shivering and the joy is in the shivering, not the dawn that doesn't exist yet lately my time is best spent not hoping but noticing feeling how my hands shake and my stubble grows and I am too tired to shave it even though I don't like how it makes me look ahead of me are mornings spent enjoying the breeze and nights around fires with good company behind me are the cold years but right now the seltzer cans are on the counter and the laundry slithers and hot pocket boxes are fruitful and multiplying lately, I live between two spaces lately I go for walks at dusk lately I don't laugh but do I smile so what if I'm feeling interstitial?
P.K Jade writes poems and short fiction, often inflected by science fiction and history (sometimes both!). They grew up in New England and there they remain. Poems written on the T are special.