Sarah Colona is a graduate of George Mason University's MFA program. Her poems have appeared in Measure: an annual review of formal poetry, The Chimaera, Six Little Things, and Umbrella. New work is forthcoming in Jabberwocky and The Ampersand Review.
I’m forgetting things, insignificant things: change purse, sunglasses, where to find the “I” on the keyboard. My fingers, heavy with uncertainty, reach mole-blind to form the word. I’m forgetting how the pills came to be on the desk, beneath an address book, opened to the letter “P.” Beneath hardly seems like the right word now. If I reach into the drawer, I will find a dictionary with dog-eared pages. I’ve highlighted my favorite words between “punctilious” and “purblind”; “punctuation” is not one of them. If I turn to “O” in the address book, I will find an old lover between “owl-light” and “ox.” I’ve been meaning to write and invite him to visit. It’s been so long since I wrote “insignificant” with any confidence. I’ve counted the pills and find, as I tilt back to swallow, I’ve been wearing sunglasses like a tiara this whole time.