Fatigue

by Nina Keen

                                                                                                                       
He talks so much.

Sometimes I hear his voice in my dreams:
"Did you remember to wash the pan?
Did you put your things away?
When will dinner be ready?
Did you know the earth was made
by a fist of steel and hot liquid fire?"

He would know because he's been there,
or so I imagine:
standing on some infernal mountaintop,
eyes wide open, a multitude of thoughts
racing in his mind,
he's waiting for the first human to be created
so he can unload unto them from his mouth.

I'm supposed to be a woman,
I'm supposed to be his.
But all I want to do is
not have to be.

A warm spring afternoon,
pink blossoms are swirling in the breeze.
A soft yellow light spills through
the curtains, jerry-rigged,
on our single-paned windows.
I find the mattress lying on the floor,
lined with my stuffed animals and
baby blanket,
I take all of them up in my arms,
close my eyes,
and cohabit with them,
their living-dead space:
Asleep, not dead, asleep, not alive.

I'll
paint glassy black eyes on top of my
lids,
and let him talk to her
while I sleep and
take care of this terrible
fatigue.


* * * * *

Nina Keen received her Master's degree in English literature from Loyola Marymount University. Her flash fiction pieces and poetry have appeared in LA Miscellany, The Fifth Di, and Coffin Bell Journal. She enjoys old fairy tales, modern horror, and all kinds of poetry. Nina currently lives in Los Angeles and enjoys going for walks, drinking lots of coffee, and collecting tiny trinkets.