When I see the article about the polar bears wandering into Russian homes I leave it open
unread for a week and consider this trying. Because I am trying
to be honest, I can’t say I am doing my best, or even trying my best,
but at the very least, at my very worst, I’m trying.
I wake up, and this is trying, by which I mean I am sad
and yet participate in the requisite functions of my life,
usually without audible complaint or demonstrative suffering,
trying, for others’ benefit,
to be polite, or (trying to be
honest) because I am embarrassed
to be suffering—but I also mean this, that I am sad and it is difficult,
a trial, a circumstance that tries my patience, this sadness is
so annoying, I’m so sad it drives me crazy. Like everyone else,
I try to do the dishes, to remember birthdays, not to pick
at my degenerate skin. Because I am female
I try to fulfill domestic labors like cleaning out the fridge
and unreciprocated kindness, I try to improve
my appearance without making it evident I care
about my appearance, I try to care about the right things
while making it clear I am still trying, with my appearance,
so that men might consider fucking me, and I should consider this (privately)
the measure of my worth. And because I am American I try to keep up
with the crisis de l’heure, with domestic politics and public displays
of rage, I try to be productive, I try to remember
reusable bags for my produce, to reduce my footprint, to check pronouns
and my privilege, I try to do my part, to cause little harm, but
because I am alive harm comes
with the territory, the territory upon which I rent is stolen, the city
gentrified, and all year an unseasonable heat
that I, minor accomplice, have to try very hard
not to delight in, short sleeves in February, sweating through
Halloween, I admit it, for no defensible reason
I still eat meat, still drive on occasion to the CVS
down the street, I’ve been known to tell a joke
that verges on mean, I’m trying, I mean it, to be good, to be good
in a way that is not covertly
gendered or self-serving, to be accountable, to practice virtue
without announcement, to make at least half
as good what I leave as how
I found it—trying
for you, inkblot, mirage, standing in the artificial
dawn on cold tile, golden
dew on a stick, first snow
pawing at the window to get in.
2087
vaporwave
pixelskylines
blakekathryn
ellievsbear
kaledo-art
discoholicmusic
kianamaiart
tangentwithtanner
