Tuesday

You write the words so no one will understand, it is
Tuesday again, always Tuesday, even when it
is Friday and the school across the street shrieks with excitement, the
walls have ears and you say it is Tuesday and carefully write a list
of what you have and have not allowed yourself, because
it is always Tuesday and the walls shake their heads,
and trace the lines of your notes, shorter every week, but not
every day because it is not Tuesday and you can write what you
need, the walls do not have ears.

You do not use the phone because the words have slipped from your grasp,
the subtle difference between careful and controlled, the words on the paper
say I had an English degree as if it has fallen between the crack in the night
between yesterday and today. You say, fine, a word that says exactly what
you did not want it to, but you fold your shirt against your body, soft as tissue
until only your hands grasp themselves, twisted like birds,
poisoned.