I am folding my crackers. One in half, and then again.

They are wide brown rectangles, sweet on the palate, sweeter still slathered with cream cheese, or braunschweiger, like a mother used to do.

I am folding my crackers. Little bits of space I control, little pieces of eating I measure out and dole to myself. Like postcards, or coupons for backrubs, or four-leaf clovers.

Every single crumb that drops reminds me, each time you move space around you something breaks. You have to know this; I tell you now so you will know.

For next time.

It can’t be folded neatly. Things break off.

← An IndieWeb Webring πŸ•ΈπŸ’ β†’

I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.