From Portraits Of Mary

xix.

Mary lives loudly, loud entrances and exits, shoes
in the corridor, lights left on, cabinets left open,
trips in and out looking for her purse, keys, phone.

This is the fourth morning of my fast. Days are passing
in a whirlwind of gold and violet leaves. Mary juicing.
The grind of the machine, drip of apple, beetroot,

berries, grapes. Mary asks me to unload her van,
boxwoods she found God knows where, a rock that must
weigh a hundred pounds. I’m studying inconsequence;

not futility, mind you, but inconsequence. Last night,
someone brought up the half full-half empty debate,
and it struck me, Mary, I’m done with that. I’m taking

my own precious glass—shattering it against the wall.