Fatigue is the Light Missing from a Broken Bulb
Fatigue can arrive from avoidance of fatigue, and the only way to cut open the loop is to sharpen a knife with your front teeth. My right front tooth is fake — a replacement after a car accident — and my left front tooth lacks grit. By my age, I should have a notable achievement: a pile of thank you notes, the ability to identify notes on a piano. Instead, I have seeds from my stepmother stuffed into white envelopes that should have been planted in November, and now the ground is dry as a nervous throat, and the sun as red as open poppies. I’m staying inside, anyway, because the lizards are in the trees puffing their throats into brilliant pink displays, and I’m not prepared for the beauty contest. At best, my mating display is my goosebumps raising the sheets at night. I can sew a button, and I can make shrimp etouffee, but I can’t figure out how to tell my partner when I want sex. On vacation, the green parrots with the white bare skin around their eyes blush at each other to initiate whatever parrot sex is, and they’re propped in the trees like heavy puppets. I admire it. How romantic, to have someone control your difficult body. I have overindulged myself and there is no solution. I have prayed under the weight of the moon when there is no book describing a god I can humor. I have found that fatigue is the light missing from a broken bulb, and it’s too dangerous to pick up glass.
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