hanging on by threads, by cloud filament,
I wake and have no desire to go forth into the day.
the backs of my knees ache
for something to wake me up,
pinch my heart back into the way it used to be.
we sing of things like love and lust
and sometimes hope, and the songs are
batted into deep corners under our bed
by an unruly kitten.
this is the way things are supposed to feel, he says.
perhaps it was watching Misery as a child
that made me expect the worst out of those
who come to you with kind hands
I dodge between cars seated at red lights,
hope they don’t suddenly lurch and send bones crashing.
I taunt death with kneecaps, mittened hands,
pills packed in my purse.