Some mornings, waking up is harder than you’d think
Trapped, heavy under red patchwork quilt with downy feathers clawing my skin, my arms end in mere nubs, handless. I feel the weight of the dust motes spiraling in a sunlit column from the window, chasing each other endlessly and hammering against my temples, thudding in my ears, a pulsing thrum of life and vitality and inevitability but I can’t brush them off, because in the place where fingers ought to be there are only rounded ends, fleshy like a mole rat’s nose, protruding from my sleeve cuffs, sniffing against the darkness in the sheets. Smells like an evasion, and an overdeveloped sense of righteous sloth, my wrists report. Sir. Maybe if there was someone else here, they hint. It would be easier. Shut up, I say. You’re nubs. I can tangle here by myself as long as I want. january 2011, copyright sarah hirsch |
Writing, writingA blog of mostly poems, some prose. Recent works will be added to the top, and older pieces are backdated. Please write me a note if you have any questions, etc! Archives
October 2017
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All works are original and copyright Sarah Hirsch, 2017. Please contact me directly if you would like permission to use any images or words. Thank you!
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