CONSTANTS

I’ve thought of you just once this year so far, I wish that I could stop. But, if I did, I’d only then remember you again. The shock of reminiscence jars me more than the constancy of thought. So, I leave you in a single thought that cannot stop.

I put myself far down, where you can’t see the movements I make towards a future unattainable from such a depth. But, knowing this, I keep digging. Distracted. That single thought pushed back against my skull.

The dark down here consumes me, as it should, all I’m left is consumable and worn. The light above still bares your silhouette, and with that, the thought survives within me.

The rain, at last, falls down upon my back. The darkness here complete without your light. The thought that cannot stop has reached an end.

The emptiness reminds me what I’ve lost. That single twitch of memory returns.

The thought that cannot stop begins again.

I’ve thought of you just twice this year so far, I wish that I could stop. But, when I do I only then remember you again.

Words by Ben Carr

There were once mornings his breath did not leave him. Escape him, fleeing in favour of some taught-skinned, solid-boned replacement. The supple man he is no longer. That man would not struggle to separate his skin from his linen sheets - crinkled, yellowed, worn. That man would lift his legs - swing! - as if to borrow the air’s buoyance. That man does not wake only with terror in his chest.

Saul is not that man. He remembers this every morning.

On the first attempt, he is reminded: this body is not your own. Because in a night he cannot place, someone has traded the parts of him he knew. Where are his ribs among the lead? Where are his ankles within the iron? The bed frame does not answer him, but his fingers reach for its wood - his sole confidant. He will show no one his pain. On the second attempt, he rises.

The carpet grants his first exhale. Into it he sinks - his body’s condition - or he will move no further. Not a grain in all its fibres disturbs this release, he ensures it. And how else to separate the days? Monday: vacuum. Tuesday: mop. Wednesday: scour. Thursday: scrub. But on these Fridays, the excuses do not oblige him. Lifted brows, arched lips. Sure! The bleach splits your skin, not the years. The dust dulls your eyes, not the strain. But he knows: when the work stops, so will his breath. He fights the decay.

Butter on toast, a silent stomach; only a clear sink satiates him. But it is his proof. It is the last of all that needs him, his body, it cannot be neglected. Into the wilted bag he reaches - fur? Mould. Twenty-eight slices in a loaf, twelve eggs in a carton; numbers fewer than his own, and yet they defeat him. The blackened bread asks: where are the others? The rotten shells cry: why aren’t we gone?

Why aren’t we gone?

It is in his bones, his blood, but the sound pains him most: a mug clattering against its saucer. Hands that will not steady. Spilled coffee. If these were mine, they would listen. They would be still. But they are not, do not. To reach the counter, his sanctuary, takes more than he has. And so he allows himself to sit. He allows himself another page: eight through thirteen. And on the twelfth: four men in the dirt, all parts of them one - bared teeth and damp hair and tired veins. Last night’s game. He allows himself the thought: Has he seen this? But the last time he called

Now’s not a good time, Dad. I’ll call you tomorrow?

7:31. The morning ahead of him.

Words by Sabrina Donato 7:31