calendar

I come home from the grocery store and the evening’s grim mouth is

gagged with anxiety, leaving the air quiet: sunday.

I put away milk and honey, processed bread, “manager’s choice” turkey

that will expire tomorrow, black beans and finally, my prize

for shopping, for working those cursed casino-lit corridors, for taking

my sister to the orthodontist: raspberries.

just a pint but they are magnificent, vibrant as the pretend ketchup I layer on gas station hot dogs.

no, vibrant as the blood under my chipped fingernails.

no, let’s

just say vibrant.

so I go on, my days now brighter

with anticipation. I sweep floors, climb walls, hurry

past the blinding counter with my socks in one hand and soul in the other. I take nights heavy with aching arms, glazed with rest; I take benadryl,

wait. The cracked desert road plateaus, prepares to curve uphill and into raw

refreshing shade: thursday.

on break. happy, or happier. time loiters like asphalt

in a pitch drop.

the clouded plastic reveals berries half melted, adorned in fleecy white and green, pathetically lain in their own decomposition. they look up at me.

I blink. clench my teeth. extend my hand. let the faint pulse sync with mine for the briefest of moments and then thumb

the slouching bodies down to put them to rest.

press the repulsive, lifeless eyes closed. eyeliner and organs have smudged onto my finger and I look up to find a towel

but blink again, and see

the counter in front of me now dusted in cobwebs, now sticky with the remains of

long-forgotten meals, now anything but ashimmer: faith, arrogantly

mistaken.

so berries rot, hair falls out, shifts are missed but I trust

in another box on another shining counter on another gloomy day: peace