I gave up things. I stopped
wearing jewelry and
shopping for clothes.
I stopped eating
dessert. I switched
to sponge baths in the sink.
When the dear dog died
I didn’t get a new pet.
When little things broke
I glued them and when
big things broke
I recycled their parts.
When the sofa fabric
shredded I gave away
the cushions. When I had
stored the content
in my brain I took
the books to the library
in a wheelbarrow.
I stopped scheduling
appointments. I turned
down offers of rides;
if I couldn’t walk or bike
I didn’t go. I gave up
haircuts, shampoo,
sunscreen (though I kept
a hat), shaving,
filing of all kinds,
dusting, vacuuming. I grew
my herbs in a pot
and I lived on what
I grew and I grew
so thin that when I lay
on my back in my bed,
which was the sofa
frame, my belly
sagged like a hammock
between the posts
of my pelvis. My knees
ground into each other
all night long but
I’d given up pills.
I gave up social
media and then
email and when
the computer
crashed I put it
on the curb. I made people
uncomfortable. They
began to shun me
when I began to smell
like a person. I gave
up people.
But I wasn’t ready
to give up places,
oh no. I needed
somewhere to hang
my hat.
