Inventory

by Sarah Soderborg

How much of this dust is your shedded skin cells:
…..your flashy regeneration and excess, your tedium?
All the inside out pants with underwear curled in them;
…..your wake,
and the loop in which you peel out of yourself every night,
…..back in every morning.

 

Face half­numb pressed into a pillowcase,
…..you whisper catechisms pulled from the cotton.

 

The waitress whose voice is soaked in honey.
The small dog.
The nightmare where you need to pack up right away why do you have all these things. The crap you ordered on the internet.
The sidewalks that lead to the room
…..(the one they were referring to).

 

When you arrive the room is teeming with chatter.
…..You extend a toe, a foot.
Feeling secure
…..you shift your whole weight from the doorframe and in.
Upon your presumption the floor drops out.

 

And, again.

 

 

 

 

Author’s note: “A line is a moment, and I think each moment in a poem should reach completion. What completion means is often made apparent only in the poem, not before it. In this way, a complete moment must be aware of the poem as a whole. It reflects a knowledge of each other moment in the poem by doing its own unique work.”