Most Days I Want to Live by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

Most Days I Want to Live
Gabrielle Calvocoressi

Not all days. But most days
I do. Most days the garden’s
almost enough: little pink flowers
on the sage, even though
the man said we couldn’t eat
it. Not this kind. And I said,
Then, gosh. What’s the point?
The flowers themselves,
I suppose. The rain came
and then the hail came and my love
brought them in. Even tipped
over they look optimistic.
I know it’s too late to envy
the flowers. That century’s
over and done. And hope?
That’s a jinx. But I did set them
right. I patted them a little.
And prayed for myself, which
is embarrassing to admit
in this day and age. But I did it.
Because no one was looking
or listening anyway.

MARGINALIA

1.
Some days I am farther along. And by that I mean: showers, yay, and perhaps breakfast. Standing barefoot in the kitchen making coffee before walking slowly back to my desk, careful not to spill. Then it’s off to writing, or whatever it is I can do in order to make enough to live by.

2.
Some days I spill the coffee and I collapse to the floor in tears, wondering if I’ll ever be okay. And normal.

3.
Some days it’s suddenly seven in the evening, and I’ve forgotten to have a bath, and fuck where have the hours gone and why do my shoulders hurt from being hunched over and shit pain shoots up from my elbow to my wrist. I munch absent-mindedly on a stale cookie and realise only too late that it’s my breakfast, lunch, and dinner altogether.

4.
Some days I tell myself I’m really going to take out the garbage this time, and I do. I even take my meds.