The sun sets at five in November, lighting
the afternoon a sickly orange. Specks
of dust cast faint shadows,
drifting noiselessly. Skulls
of dandelion seeds.
The day yawns
drawn-out and slow. A comfortable
buzzing fly lands to rest
on the slouched and speckled
bananas fruit bowled next to me.
Gran’s bones tick
as she picks
at her toenails.
The nipped at nail flicks
away. Clicks metronome
regular. Counts strict seconds.
Under my nail,
a loose armchair stitch.
Dirty cream cotton thread
frayed and puckered like
skin around a half-healed wound
being unpicked-picked-picked-picked.
by a.w. vann 