Sheila E. Murphy
I have three sixteen point nine fluid ounce plastic water bottles with
a Sharpie-written “S” atop the blue lids. I consume the contents of
each bottle every few hours, then I fill them for an encore.
I have a tall black mug that says “Arizona Division of Emergency
Management FACULTY” stamped in gold along the side, filled with sencha
green. I re-fill throughout the day within the privacy of these repeat signs.
Outside it is just ninety degrees, with humidity at eleven percent. My
desktop is a brushed color of blue. It has grown smooth upon my
resolution to remove the dross that used to hide it.
For lunch I tucked a can of water-packed sardines into my salad doused
with Julee’s caesar dressing and modest croutons, and had tea to go
My work is a young lamb to me. I hear its skin. I dream the halo
accidentally behind its head. For half the morning, I was using my
white noise machine to help me feel dimensions of the keyboard that
I’ve come to love. I am making a coherent picture out of what one terms
“input” that arrived as bushels of assorted syllables. My challenge is
to make them seem connected.
At three thirty-something it is still enough to sleep, but I don’t
sleep. I taste the liquid and I constantly infer a range of concepts
from the words I read. Each fabrication is alive with data. I almost
hear it start to work the heart. As camera-ready justice realigned
with the indicative remainder of a range.