“A man parted his beard” by Sasha in her bedroom

Friday April 24, 2020
5 minutes
Kim Goldberg

These days are liquid, aren’t they? Flowing downwards towards something but no one is really sure what. Are you craving more salt? Replenish those stores. Tired feet trudge and grudge towards something that is new, warm, unsure. What day is it? What time is it? I’m writing by the light of a small flashlight I found in a drawer that most certainly does not belong to me. I am a thief.

What have you stolen? What have you let go of? What have you vowed you’ll never tell anyone? What have you lost that you’re still trying to find, when you ball socks or fold T-shirts? When you organize books and batteries and ball-point pens?