I claw up a muddy hillside in the rain in the dark.

I see the top of the hill just in reach but I can’t make it. 

Small chipmunks and raccoons rip at my exposed ankles, my calves.

I feel the bark on knees,

the stones on shins,

the mud coating skin.

I don’t know how to

rip out the shadows from my

breast. I remember a time

when I kept busy.

I create lists.

I make dinner.

I do laundry.

I pay bills.

I sweep.


I shower.

I change clothes.

I check my phone.

I check my e-mail.



No one writes me back.


                                                                                                             I brush my teeth.

                                                                                                          I walk the dog.

                                                                                                        I try to revise.


   I take my clothes out of the dryer.

I give the cat a treat.

I unwrap a package.

I fold clothes.

I write a thank you note.

I pay another bill.

I make my bed.

I make other people’s beds.

I walk the dog.


I eat yogurt.

I try to meditate.

I put socks away.

I dust off the television.

I mop. I make dinner again.


No one writes me back.

I read one page of one book.

I put shoes away in the closet.

I let the dog out in the back yard.

I clean off my desk.

I throw old grocery lists away.

I read another page in the same book.



I try to

I read

I clean out my purse.

I put

I feed the dog.

I drive my

I sweep

I tell



I call my mom

I clean

I lay the

I change

I attempt

I change sheets


       I eat

I open

I re-

I re-



I claw

I claw

I claw


I c