Spending Poem by Rebecca Jackson



The window blinds carve
thick black lines across the carpet
and the clocks in each room
each tick slightly differently; mildly frantic
you are stretched across your
low bed, “Thinking,” you say, “making space
for myself”
banded darkness underscoring
the tendons of your hands and the alternation
between us.
Your roommate’s eternal music
glistens like a plate of marbles
rolling under the door
from the next room,
the depth of our quiet
pouring like oil
into the shared
bowl of afternoon