Sarah Guilbault
scans
if I scan my body like
you tell me from my head to my
littlest toe, tucked under, calloused
on the one side, the left perfect and
tender
I chafe at the bother that blooms under
my attention.
I am the only witness to this crumbling
body
if it is indeed crumbling—if a body falls apart
and the one inside is the only one to feel it—
notice this mass of flesh
tend to it like a garden overgrown with weeds
that I have not (yet?) the strength
nor knowledge
to pull up.
laminate
A room of one’s own on the counter of a barely insulated Sears cabin. Three feet above the floor in semi-supine, dusty feet on the white laminate counter, listening for the sounds of a day passing, counting hours in half-drunk cups of tea. The ospreys call loudest in the morning and at dusk. The first sunny patch in the house since the dying trees on the hillside were cut down in the spring. The tea has gone cold, so I roll off the counter onto the peeling floor. Thud. Harsh solidity after melting into the counter. I anticipate intrusion, the end of this solitude and wonder what making the most of time that passes slow-quickly might look like, but there are no mirrors large enough rehearse such a performance for an audience of myself.
Sarah Guilbault (she/they) is a curious little nuisance; a hopeful clown. They can be found on social media @guilbobaggins.