on again, off again.

it's just a square case of seven parts
and i fill it with small packages,
each one wrapped in white paper and cracked
down the center. scored and precious.

and then i swallow or drop behind dressers.
sometimes a fall that pushes back up
but often i just fall asleep in rows,
seven sections of myself, lined up

and disappearing. like the blinking green tea
brown behind eyelids. on and on and off off,
a weird signal of movement that directs me,
with whistles and hand motions, which way is up.

it goes away sometimes, and with it the downward
push into wheeling reeling balance.
the green of paying for simple guidance,
the paying for the ease of shutting up tight.

11/06/2007

Author's Note: afternoon scribbles.

Posted on 11/06/2007
Copyright © 2026 Meghan Helmich