Now she is sometimes a chance of stutters,
Each one a crossing gate gone down before
She can slip a next word past it. Other
Times, something in her mind leans on a door
And she falls brightly into a small room
Of bronzed feathers snatched from chattering birds.

When asked about my family, why do I think of the spiders I have allowed to live? My mother with a cigarette, a crown of smoke around her head. Tennessee in January. Flowers I’ve trampled, nameless and numerous. The cities I claim but who don’t claim me. My grandmother in a hospital bed. The vultures on the side of the road. South Carolina in June.

Plunge into the swarm.
Hands clutch your legs, your arms,
your breast; bodies drag
you down in conspiracy
with a fiery sun.

Bite down on the rosary
of words between your teeth,
spitting out bead by bead:

Synopsis:
I fumble through multiple positions as I search for the "perfect" job–the one that will confer upon me freedom, financial stability, and the ability to buy $8 artisanal coffees. But each position saps me of time or energy or the will to live. I continue the hunt, all while making up companies that only exist as Tumblr pages, quiet quitting, "stealing" company time, taking edibles while talking to customers, and purloining all the printer paper I can.