The clothes on my bedroom floor have been there for days

and the books in the corner collect dust and dead bugs with spiny legs

like it’s their job. Even with the window open, the air doesn’t move

from its solid state hanging over the musk of the room.

My mind does not race; instead it’s slow and thick like molasses

or the pudding cups in the fridge downstairs. And hot like August

when even the sky reminds itself to stand.

In church, I am told to be still and He will move you,

but I’ve been still for a long while and the world around me

shows no sign of budging.