July 2, 2024

forgive me,

I say to the stairs, billowy with cat fur, and the kitchen floor, framed 
by spillages from dinner preparations made four nights ago. When I pass
the laundry basket, lumpy with linens, I mumble it again. On the nightstand,
carcasses of old contact lenses pool around the stack of books I’ve yet 
to read, and I repeat it once more as I rise from the mattress. Forgive me, 
I tell the fledgling tomato vines, the clutter in the garage, the half-loaf 
of fancy bread moldering after my first gustatory slices. Upstairs, 
superficially brushing my teeth, I pause at the bathroom mirror, run fingers 
through untameable hair. Forgive me, I begin, but the face of the woman 
looking back seems distracted by the light coming in the window, just to my left.