Notes to Myself on Chore Day

when the mountains glower 
and throw thunder over their shoulders

observe how the heart is a fallible muscle
       the way tomatoes redden in their cages
       the way cantaloupes weave withered webs on their skin
       the way an eggshell turns translucent when held against light

listen to bitten nails
       chase the white rattle of a last aspirin in the bottle

                          restore factory settings

the washing machine spins
       the circumference of a yawn
              the downward trajectory of settling

allow an evening tea cup to collect the stars

identify the mechanisms for unlocking a jaw

and swallow sand-slinked dreams

when your mother calls and says, 
       “I have a cream for that.”

count the number of times a wire must 
       coil and bite 
to bind 
       a notebook

collect expired items

think back to a time when a stamp needed the press of a tongue

       the amount of seconds in a year

factor in gravity

and remember the way a parched August 
longs for rain

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