On Boxing Day in Newfoundland.
I start without ceremony or expectation, all wet sticks, newspaper bits, and saw cuts.
I am lethargy and intention, watching broad swaths of sun coat the backs of mountains.
I sit roughly, collapsed against black metal, smoking furtively, beckoning commitment not yet mustered.
Around me, anxious possibilities swirl, whispering sweater pulls, responsibility, and the risks of unraveling.
I feel my bones stir as something resembling possibility shifts my attention.
I issue a hopeless ruse, the size of yesterday’s news and collapse into layers.
I billow deeper than before, drawing on fumes to brace against anxiety.
An exhale on my shoulder brushes against where my edges rest.
I shudder against the crest of a conscious wind and let a rattle crinkle my lips.
I draw a breath, sharply, gasping at strips curling up my arms.
I tremble just enough to let my skin crack, fissures fizzing like cola cans.
And press urgently against the blistered walls that hold me in.
I flare towards shielded eyes and accept the consequences.
I give myself away and groan from my grinning cave of embers.
I wretch, resist, release.