March Is March

Fiction and Poetry

Mar 23

I go on forward. Between one coast

or another, my face sinks lower, still lower. Home

becomes a ceasefire. When she leaves I stop

taking care of my body; I stop walking in the morning.

Plates of corn gag themselves out of my throat. I count

the days in her absence like it will bring her back.

Time collects at 4:00,

when the dog knows it’s time to walk. I watch his paws

pitter-patter on the wet gravel, I watch my life fall apart, & I let out a Good Boy!

These days he can only go so far.

Anne Carson writes, Spring opens like a blade.

I’m trying to reinvent myself, replenish my wardrobe, wear a new skin,

swallow pink pills. Instead I buy all the books we talked about

& everything makes me cry.

Lakes don’t look the same anymore.

I close my eyes to avoid clashing with the dirty dishes in the sink;

the trash overflows with trinkets & letters.

Plant-based blueberry scones are long overeaten; I ignore the tupperware

that was once their home in the cabinet. Meanwhile spring moves onward,

the great outdoors punctures like a knife.

I check Facebook too many times, let slobber trickle down my chin & salt water

pile on my sheets. The psychiatrist asks

why I can’t just find someone else,

& I say, It isn’t that easy—

& I say, Really, I’ve tried—

& I say, You don’t understand

Every night I beg not to dream about her EVERY NIGHT I beg.

Tiffany Wong-Jones ‘23 is a writer from the Pacific Northwest

Creating Hygge