sharing

It’s a big space, shower heads on either wall allow the option for two to comfortably bathe together- though with less water pressure for either.
I hear the water running- muffling the conversation between my housemate and her boyfriend.
They’ve been in there a long time.
It’s likely the hot water will soon be gone.
Somehow, I’m not annoyed, but if they’d been fucking I’d somehow be even better with no hot water left for me.

quarantine

front porch sitting with coffee and an unnecessary hoodie.
doves coo hellos and instructions to their brood.

jasmine encases the porch columns- early buds seeping the slightest fragrance as a wasp builds its first comb on the front door.

his work will be destroyed in the afternoon.

two days later, jasmine flowers burst open and windows fly open so the scent perfumes the rooms.

and the wasp will find a new place to build.

and a squirrel will frighten her at dawn as she is awoken with a start for someone knocking at the door, but he’s just pulling back a loose piece of wood-
thump- thud- thud-
in desperate search of a new hiding spot for early spring stores.

and the jasmine grows thick til the door cannot be seen. it wraps through the handle and encases the home- days begin to link together in a chain of dawns and dusks that have no system but the rhythm of their hearts start and end the days with imperceptible division.

invisible to the world they eat banana bread made from frozen stores and flour claimed from stolen pecans gathered from the backyard tree. and they drink tea. there is a ration of rice and beans and frozen peas with bits of canned fish. and spring becomes summer- the loquat tree in the alley provides and the crepe myrtle blooms to entertain as they open swollen, low hanging buds into teeny, turning parasols- the higher ones will weep gentle shy tears for the end of the hottest days.

and fall comes and the jasmine falls back … the door cracks open and waifs emerge- stronger for they’ve become free of the world.