Monday, 27 August 2012

Quitting

It’s ok, you’re allowed to quit, you can

take the book of neatly lined appointments

and rip it into feather confetti for this—

your marriage to a summer wasting.


Spend your wedding night sat up in bed watching

technicolour cartoons and pritt-sticking collages of

three-eyed spider-goats and flying horses.


Stain your sheets with cookie dough ice cream,

pecan bourbon, sticky-hot-breath kisses.


Do not go online.

Do not answer a phone that beeps and shudders.

Do not feel bad and do not allow

the mean hissing hand on your shoulder

to tell you those things that need doing.


Melt cheddar on toast with pickled onions and

find yourself a tree to climb.


Quit like a habit, quit the letters you have to write,

quit the jobs you have to get done, quit your

cleaning and step outside where the dirt and the ground

are the same. Quit mocking your brain and quit picking

the scabs that have formed on its surface.


Find a kite, and fly it.

Find the smothered giggle in the base of your throat,

and crack your cowgirl whip at its ankle.

Find the grin you mistook for grimacing. Phone in sick

to your brain and decide

that you get to pick and quit and stay home,


or you get to go out and make nothing of your day

but cut grass.


Cut grass and a nap

in a nest that is built of summer.

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