THE MATE OF THIS GLOVE IS MISSING by Heather Miles
Her mind, fertile as farmland, one day stopped. She forgot to arrange the old house. She forgot that she forgot. She sat idle on the floor, like she did on the days her brain worked, but now, the quality of her sitting was futile, characterized by ready, but often insincere peeps and blinks.
Was she snug now? Her skin was whole, perhaps. Maybe, she quasi-thought, it was an act of making spiritual elbowroom, establishing latitude. Maybe. Unthinking to herself, she would form a strategy as necessary as breath, a crusade in the cause of something.
For once she’s devoted. In a crude state she negotiates herself, squeezes, steadies, hordes, sharpens, crouches inside herself like canned powder. She sees the moment when marrow and respite collide. She sits there as though she hasn’t said a word.
