Finishing

Jessie Dixon

Miles of uninspired gray perfuse
my will. In a frigid-winded downpour, left
arm hanging heavy at my side, I ride a
bicycle down this muddy gravel
road. Persistent yet lukewarm wanting
and four more sour weeks – a cold sponge soaked
in old peppery milk, which I will not
abandon, says of me, “She kept
showing up, disdainful and proud.”

Or
I quit — light a
fire and raise the room temperature,
white flag to my comfort zone. Take my
time in sky blue cashmere. Yet my breath,
released, would not relieve
the weight of regret.

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