In a Moment of Weakness


 

I often do things I don’t care about,

I think I’m not going to,

and then I do,

that’s all it is.

Just to make sure I can.

I’m not even strong enough,

I believe it’s related to the capacity,

as when a disk is corrupted—

I’m feeling weak,

or I’m actually weak,

which is it?

Right now I’m holding my hands in front of me so they can take everything they need,

what about when you need something

and also need the opposite?

I often think my need is showing, as in a cafeteria where you take the red jello instead of the green jello

or the orange jello,

it doesn’t make any difference.

When I’m weak my eyelashes start to unravel,

not all at once

or a little at a time,

as when the printer starts running out of ink,

I don’t mind

if nobody else does.

Honestly I’m not strong enough,

although it is often the case that you don’t know how strong you are until you’re already starting to weaken,

you think you’re not going to,

but there are things

you’re not even thinking about.

Of course one who behaves like a worm cannot complain,

as Kant pointed out in a similar context,

when one is stepped on.

Right now I’m holding my hands in front of me where they can take what I need, together with some things

they don’t even care about—

I’m feeling weak,

or weakening,

as when you’re in the cafeteria and you can’t even take anything because of the rejection that’s involved.

Sometimes I actually believe everybody has something that somebody else needs,

and just about everybody needs what somebody else has—

this is when it feels unsafe,

this is when you remind yourself you need to take everything out

and give it all back.

 

 


About

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.