Image © Lindsay Miles 2019
| by Lindsay Miles | March 30, 2020 |
“I look terrible,” I say. “Does it matter? Has it ever?” Vanity takes up less than an hour who am I kidding; Kafka nearly two. I am in that movie with Hugh Grant where life is bought in half-an-hour instalments (seen itself as a symptom of being single, unattached). “Touch my face,” I say. It is morning, and alarms sound, unfazed. It is difficult to cry when one does drugs that make it difficult to cry. It is difficult to appreciate anything right now but a centralized state, flux in our more evasive industries, the spectacle of shipments, the mail. The cornbread is dry I notice and that you do not need this moment described. No I will not look longer and closer with my surplus. I will go outside, catch a ball and dodge what breathes.
Lindsay Miles is among the winners of the 2017 Blodwyn Memorial Prize. Her work has appeared in Frond, Poetry is Dead, Bad Nudes, Plenitude, The Maynard and elsewhere. With a Creative Writing MFA from the University of Guelph, Lindsay is the author of the digital chapbook, A Period of Non-Enforcement (The Operating System, 2019). She lives in Toronto.