by Solmaz Sharif
Frugal musicality is how Kristeva described depression’s speech
Cleaning out the sink drain
The melted cheese
The soggy muesli
My life can pass like this
Waiting for beauty
Tomorrow—I say
A life is a thing you have to start
The fridge is a thing with weak magnets, a little sweaty on the inside
A bag of shriveled lime
Arugula frozen then thawed then frozen again, still sealed
I haven’t touched anyone in a year
You asked for beauty, and one morning, a small blue eggshell on the stoop, shattered open, its contents gone
Likely eaten
M asked if I’ve ever made a choice to live and why
I lied the way you lie to the suicidal
A few times, I said—not Most days
Most mornings
No, not morning
Morning I am still new
Still possible, I’m still possibly
Usually by 3:00
When grandmother died, she hadn’t been called beautiful in at least half a century
Is never described as such
Her fallen stockings, the way she spit, thwack of the meat cleaver, the little bones she sucked clean and piled on her plate, not really looking at anyone, and certainly not me
Last updated April 10, 2023