I used to collect lots of things:
bottles,
books,
toys,
caps,
yogurt lids (dozens),
water jug spigots (hundreds),
radio-show recordings,
lingerie catalogs,
Halloween masks,
birthday cards,
fingernails (for a few months),
workout sweat (one summer),
a can of chains,
a drawer of blades.
Photos of my sickness
(these muscles, those ribs).
Measures of my time
(pounds lifted, percent lean mass):
There was always a
reason (
lids fly like
frisbees, bottles whistle,
I can breathe through
a spigot,
fingernails shk-a-shk
in a can, sweat is
oily tea-colored inside
a glass bottle
) always a reason
to hold on.
But I never convinced myself
with things:
that I matter,
I'm content,
want to smile,
today was complete, well-spent...
weightless things, the opposite
Of metal plates
or plastic disks or
salty drips.
So I still collect:
In-breaths,
long hugs,
quiet
moments
where trees
shake
not at all like sickness.
I carry them in
my heart.
They aren't heavy
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