I’m a waste of space,
The way I butcher the time, spread
like a sticky centerfold in front of me,
The way it’s exhausted,
The way I stretch out the fibers
Of all the gifts
Until they’re stiff.
A dough that’s unusable
Settles like a stone on my desk,
I’m a joke of in-between
The way I take my liminal
And turn them into rice-paper
Thin phrases that crumble and peel,
Like the glue meticulously peeled off hands
Under desks at school,
Or Breton buckwheat crepes
Whose edges have gone dry and crisp, uncovered,
And gathering sad mold in the fridge.
About the AuthorCourtney Traub is a native Los Angelean who lived and worked in Paris for several years as a journalist, teacher, and failed waitress before picking up and moving to Oxford, where she's currently working toward a PHd in English.