these days

when someone
asks how I am
my mind goes
blank. an empty
moment that
stretches into
a lifetime and
back again.

I sleep but don’t

rest. this time so
slow and so fast.
punctuated by
trepidation.

think of winding tunnels
that you must walk.
to sleep could be
to die. to disappear.
sleep becomes a
band-aid for a little while.

and in that sleep of—

I take myself out of
bed. sit on the edge,
face in my hands.

the only thing that
lifts my mood lately
is washing my hair.

cool water spreads over
my scalp, down my face,
in my eyes. drips from
my lashes like dew.

I gasp, awake;

feels like a baptism
each time. 

fibromyalgia (perfect storm)

my bones are heavy
for the fourth time
this month. great sacks
of sand wrapped in flesh.
I stand for a moment and wish
to sit down. I lift a weight, run too
many errands, feel too many feelings
and I am bedridden, sore and aching,
for a full day (and counting).

I lie down and revive, gain a little back.
I stand and energy slips through my skin
like water through a sieve, soaking into
the dirt where I cannot scoop it up,
pour it into my mouth, hold it in my stomach.

I don’t hear from you anymore. I become
lonely in my room, flipping through books
and thinking too much about myself. just
outside there’s so much suffering that hasn’t
touched me, yet all I can see is how much is never
enough.

each month I become an open wound. stain the
linen against my body. I curl into my covers,
forehead to my knees. I try not to cry because nothing
is new or wrong, just different from before.

when it’s bad I think at least I’ll sleep tonight,
and maybe tomorrow I’ll feel a little better. Later
I trace the lines beneath my eyes with my finger,
moments after I’ve woken up in the dark.

pandemic (skidoo)

little scenes erupt around me.
callouses on my fingers, paint
caked beneath my nails. haven’t
gone anywhere all summer, hardly
spoken to a soul. outside smoke
chokes the sky, another fire in the
mountains. I remember this time
ten years ago, first day of school
looming. anticipation—new classes,
new people, new potential. things always
turn out the same but there used to be that
blessed “maybe.” kept me going
for another day. when did I get so old? why
do I still feel so young? little scenes sit around me,
watch me from my bookshelves. I wish I could—
what’s that word? from that show when
I was so small? the one with the dog and
the nice man in the striped sweater? they were
home every day, too.

Kathryn H. Ross adores cats, warm baths, and Daniel Radcliffe films. Her debut book, Black Was Not A Label (2019), was recently published with indie press PRONTO and she holds a BA and MA in English and Writing. Her work ranges from sentimental and absurd shorts and poetry to lamentation essays about living as a young black woman in America. Read her at speakthewritelanguage.com