Weaving

Written by Serena

In a period of recompensing—
making amends, as for damage or loss,
or trying to do so, never having known
how often or how thoroughly, or whether
even to wash rice—there was an animal
in the apartment with me, worn out
from her vet visit that day.

My attempts to wear a coat of fog
were slouchy. I slunk into a demonself
and liked the fade. So busy in my room
I did not know—I did not sense
the slowing and evaporating.