But it's hard to keep track of time when the days all feel so much alike. Despite hours of sunlight and the disappearance of the snow, the air outside today was exactly like yesterday's air, chilly and smelling of smoke from fireplaces, and the air inside is still stuffy and smelling of furnace heat.
I'm not satisfied with either indoors or out. I wish I'd bought a pomegranate Saturday. Biting little red berries that squirt tangy-sweet juice onto my tongue would be something to counteract the monotony.
Happy January 3rd.
by Richard Siken
Sunlight pouring across your skin, your shadow flat on the wall. The dawn was breaking the bones of your heart like twigs. You had not expected this, the bedroom gone white, the astronomical light pummeling you in a stream of fists. You raised your hand to your face as if to hide it, the pink fingers gone gold as the light streamed straight to the bone, as if you were the small room closed in glass with every speck of dust illuminated. The light is no mystery, the mystery is that there is something to keep the light from passing through.