Pseudoscience
When my blackout
blinds have been
down for two weeks,
my bed is the coldest spot
in the house.
My alarm squawks
for the second time,
and I pad out of my bedroom;
my dressing gown arranged
in an off-the-shoulder fashion
like something Polykleitos
abandoned
in his workshop.
The sun casts a square
of light through the back screen
onto the kitchen floor,
and my Chihuahua
clings to it
like the last
of winter’s tinder.
I see my hairdresser after lunch,
and she asks if I want glitter
in my hair,
but I can tell she’s really asking
if it’ll be like one of those
Saturday nights,
when dawn
could still be conjured
with the alchemy
of vodka and sugar.
I decline.
By afternoon,
the sun has receded behind
the escarpment, and
the last of its light
spills onto the backdoor.
I only notice this
because my Chihuahua is busy
trying to lick it up,
thinking it can fill her quivering
body.
She looks back at me
as though she knows
something I don’t.
The 6 p.m. news informs me
a cold spot in space
could be proof
of a parallel universe.
I don’t know what that means;
I just know I want to go
back to bed.
The water
in the shower
is too hot.
Shampoo
forms bubbles
on my scalp
as I try imagining
a parallel life.
I look down.
There’s glitter
in the water.