It takes several saws back and forth before the stubborn pink chunks of meat begin to break down. And even then, you need the fork and knife together to pull at the pieces, until the last sinews pull apart. You fill the cutting board with precise chunks. Your mind drifts backward. It is cathartic in a way, this non-use, or other use, rather, of your brain.

I started smoking again after a long time of going without. There was no gradual development on the slope of cigarettes smoked. There was the lone Marlboro, bummed from a stranger on the street, and then soon after followed the packs in cartons bought cheaply from a bodega. I felt terrible, as you can expect, but I have a method: I only smoke at night when the air is crisp with evening dew. When you limit your smoking sessions to just four hours a night, you can imagine how hard it is to chain-smoke an entire pack. 

Time seems to have stalled here, Spanish moss still reaches down from branches, the saltwater is still warm against my skin, and all the houses continue to stubbornly disguise themselves. As I peddle the thin paths cut through the trees, I become the girl I was so long ago, the one too long ignored, willing to break her body against the sharp edges of a forbidden boy. This hardly helps.

The neighbor’s dog, Blue, keeps barking
so I decide to keep trying.
Be relentless as the dog’s loneliness.