The Dragon Fruit

At noonday,

The light, such as it is,

lies weakly on the table.

I cut a dragon fruit I meant to eat

for the sake of doing something.

Its white flesh, speckled with seeds -

like distant souls that brush my life,

yet never break the outer skin.

Suspended in their quiet spheres,

soft silhouettes of time and breath,

whose nearness cannot banish fear.

I should be getting ready

for a friend’s birthday -

the expected smile,

the talk I don’t have energy for.

These things pile up

the way small illnesses do-

quietly, persistently.

My ink-stained hands lay in my lap

Small remnants of a self I keep,

of what relief looks like.

Oh, let the world demand no more

of weary days and borrowed cheer;

grant me the hush of weekends’ shore,

Where no loud footstep draws me near.