On the days where the
wildsmoke fills the air,
I text my neighbour
to shut her windows.
After work, we take
turns around the Big
Name grocery. Health
Walks, we joke, under
grey heat or toxic
mist, picking apples
we have chosen to
trust: fragile skin washed
into submission
by pesticides we
do not yet know to
fear. We talk about
our bosses, crochet,
hobbies we make small
moments for. Fifteen
years spent together,
weaving friendship out
of the hours bio-
accumulated.
“My power has gone
out,” I send. Her unit
is fine. “Let me know
when it is back,” she
writes. I do. Though clocks
say it is past mid-
night when the fans whirl
back to life. No need
to spin new worry.
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Since it dawned on us
to count time, we have
been waiting for it
to run out. Early
ancestors lived their
short, fast, and hard lives,
never outpacing
disease, starvation,
violence. Despite
the era of robots,
medicines, and corn,
we are still dancing
with the same partners.
Our finite planet
limits our days by
design, but some are
offered the lie, a
light trick: immortal
lives leached from blood and
soils - bio-hacking.
Fragile skin latticed
for greed and fear of
our impermanence.
not all wounds get to
heal. Looms cannot weave
together more time.
Care is a textile
art: separate threads
spun under tension
as one; lives bound by
hand and by needle.
For strength, count stitches.
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