I.
sunbeams criss cross overhead,
above the reach of my live-in pallor.
I am painted
in varying shades
of concrete and shadow.
I cannot stand up
straight enough to feel their light.
My foot has gotten caught
in the legs of this chair.
My arm is stuck between the bed and the wall.
I only rise after sundown
to spit yesterday out of my bloated belly
to watch clouds of smoke circle matted hair
detached from this thing
under my skin,
I focus on gray above,
grime at eye level.
I wait, solemn, for it to fade away.
II.
it has no color, the blanket
I’m under and the air is cardboard
the only movement anywhere, a tickle,
pin prick, behind my eyeballs, won’t tell me why it’s there, it won’t
name itself.
It just hovers, a faint buzzing loud enough to be frustrating but not loud enough for anyone else
to hear.
it clogs up my thoughts so I can’t remember why I’m here, my head
swollen with rain
only lost images bleed through and tear like wet paper
crumpled in a ball and discarded in the corner.
Kristin A Trumble is a graduate student and mother in Minneapolis, Minnesota. A lifelong writer, she is just beginning the adventure of sharing her work with others. She spends much of her free time with her German shepherd dog or in a public library. She could not bear life without books and credits them with keeping her alive and rooted in the world.
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