i sent USD$100
to Africa and
my man bought food
for his family and
put electricity
to his house.
warm, i am
warm enough
in a used and
insulated long sleeve,
wool socks and
denim. warm
enough to sit here
under pulsing lights and
write about hell.
hell is only
the breadth of a hair,
yes? or
maybe that is
the distance between
heaven and hell.
who of us is
surprised
that this
whole smearing planet
is able to fit on
one single hair?
i am unsure if
i know the difference
between width and
breadth and
maybe there really isn’t
one, or
maybe the difference is
contextual, contextual
like sitting warm
enough full enough
safe enough and
just shuddering
with all this hell.
shudder like
a window pane
annoyed by
the slamming door.
shudder like
that woman in
Oregon who
paints and
sparkles and
you’ve of course
made her mostly
up, even when
you see that photo
of her
with her
hair messy but
piled up and
you know she
did that and
not you,
no,
even if you’ve
mostly made her up.
yah, that
kind of shudder.
a hair
on the back of
the neck,
so fine and
so sweet and
so soft that
you don’t even know
of its existence until
UP it stands,
right after the door
goes BANG and
the window pane
furrows
and shudders
in its pained annoyance.
and that,
that,
all that you
didn’t even know
to exist, it
draws a single finger
gently along your neck.
silent. or
maybe just quiet.
hell burrows
into your chest,
its fear
consumes it and then
you. and
one single hair,
its existence
a mystery,
and on it,
the smear of
a twirling planet.
and
all around it,
all around
you, heaven.
zakschafer.com 