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.

‚Äč

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.

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© 2018 Ariel Bartlett