Jesica Carson Davis

A HOLIDAY IS A POINT ON A CALENDAR, WHICH IS A CYCLE
after James Davis


Time in a box     that you don't notice until you do
the stove has an eye, your hand, the needle

(keep going). There is a silhouette, an outline
someone in the distance          attempting attention;

the thud as it lands. Impact reverberates in skeleton.
Today, ignore the difference between outside and in.

A wonder, a break that hovers          just out of reach
waiting to be touched. Whose hands are these

that pull from beneath, you forgot to ask.
Basic corporal maintenance becomes a weighted task.

There are scenes you keep filed under snow
and all its meanings. Numbness begins to creep, which is to say

unfeeling. Uncertainty. A flicker at the edges,
a facet of self-preservation. What it means to be done.

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