The Hands Know the Hour

In the morning I weigh my hours,
measuring minutes I might not meet,
I decide to mark the calendar
with ink instead of with doubt—
As though tomorrow is a promise
I can keep in my pocket.

In the kitchen I pour comfort into my mug,
along with my coffee and cream.
I hold the heat between swollen hands,
letting the warmth of it chase off
the remnants of dreams about dying,
much as it eases the aches in my fingers.

I scribble lists of goals
with hope instead of hesitation,
as if writing them down
could anchor them to reality.
By nightfall I might tear them up,
treating them like secrets
not safe in my keeping.

While putting away the dishes,
I line up trust along with the tableware,
as if tidy rows will bring me a tidy life,
as if this tiny calm can quell the chaos.
I slide the drawers shut with purpose,
securing away what little control I can.

With dinner I serve a side of patience,
bland as every meal I can make myself eat—
It tastes like nothing more than endurance.
I try to swallow it without resistance,
like forcing it down might make it enough.
Maybe I can learn to crave the dull weight.

I cannot name what shifts in me
between sunrise and the sun’s descent,
its slow retreat tugging at loose threads,
pulling my careful plans into twilight,
unraveling them stitch by stitch,
until nothing is left but dusk.

While I climb into bed the hours drift ahead,
indifferent to what I make of them.
Tomorrow, like today, will pass regardless.
Whether I shape it or let it slip past me,
if I fill it with hope or hollow it out,
is a choice that will always be mine.