Peter Leight lives in Amherst, Massachusetts. He has previously published poems in the Paris Review, AGNI, Antioch Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, FIELD, and other magazines.
Care
When I’m being careful
I walk around the room
and pick up some things
in order to put them down,
taking a pill or two
to take care of myself,
tying my hair in braids with the same number on each side—
if I didn’t care
I wouldn’t be so careful.
Pushing my hands away
but they always come back,
as if they’re just as careful
as I am.
When I sit down I cross my legs and wrap them around each other
to make sure they’re not going anywhere,
it reminds me of Veblen:
advertising one’s function while preventing one from performing it.
I’m not admitting anything,
not even thinking about anything I don’t care about,
how do you know what you care about
until you start thinking about it?
Moving my shoulders
one at a time,
wrapping a string around my finger to remind myself
there’s something I need to be reminded of,
such as when the time comes,
not even lifting my hands
until I know where I’m going to put them down—
if you’re not careful
you end up being careless,
I’m not denying it,
even if it’s not something
I’m admitting.
I’m actually thinking about getting a pet
because it needs to be taken care of
24/7,
you don’t even know how careful you are until you’re taking care of something all the time.
