Poem by Victoria James
Small flecks of dirt thrive on the hardwood, sticking to my feet pushing my annoyance just above 10. That’s a lie, 20. My no-show socks bury themselves In the mound of laundry, mocking me, playing hide-and-seek I add another shirt to the pile. Tiny trucks roll down uneven foundation, books with ripped edges and bent covers. Even the chunky books. Walker, stuffed animals, and pillows littered with dog hair that covers the floors — in case they get warm. Even though I vacuum twice a day. Silence is too much most of the time, but silence isn’t enough all of the time. I know it doesn’t make sense So I play Bluey in the background. My mind is transcribed on sticky notes, desk calendars, apps, email, through text, and conversation. Good luck if I remember to show up. The future is exhausting and frightening — I could prepare to make it easier on myself. Nope. That’s extra on my plate. I’m full. 10,000 steps: one forward and four backward Toward one place only to remember a past direction. I’ll come back later.
Victoria James is an English and Creative Writing teacher. She was awarded a Masters of Science in Secondary Education and a Masters of the Arts in Literature from Pitt State University. Her fiction appears in Choeofpleirn’s Spring Magazine and Cow Creek Review. Her poetry appears in Cow Creek Review, Empyrean Literary Magazine, and more.
