by Jen Fitzgerald
Your body: a dash on a graph,
delineated by passingÂ
unconscious ticks.Â
        1.9 hours daily bread and water.
A puddle measures its life in raindrops;
2 billion before it’s called back to the sky.
        1.37 hours on weekends and holidays.Â
Time management dissectedÂ
like a paralyzed sparrow.
        ReligiousÂ
        obligations growÂ
        by .03 hours,
        SundayÂ
when planes mimic V’s of migration
for fuel efficiency— mechanical arms extendÂ
featherless and southward.
        4.73 leisure hours a day.
Volleyball injuries are
serving up, spiking down,Â
serving up, spiking down,Â
pounding air with delicateÂ
rivets of friction.
        1.9% Productivity increaseÂ
        coupled with labored
        breathing cost decrease of 1%
slows down the line,Â
move over to the sideÂ
if you plan to die.
        And 4,609 will—
        458 by homicide;
Of the 1,800 images in a single minuteÂ
of stop animation- only one burnsÂ
its way off the reel, jumps to its deathÂ
rather than feel the projector slap.
        Line-mate, wrench;Â
        adulterer, blade.
All murderer and murdered—
loves we molt to slice our pieÂ
chart of a life haveÂ
to fall somewhere- sweep them up,Â
convince your countryÂ
you wouldn’t kill for a job.Â
Jen Fitzgerald is a poet and a native New Yorker who received her MFA in Poetry at Lesley University. She is the Count Director for VIDA: Women in Literary Arts. Her work has been featured on PBS Newshour, in Tin House, and AAWW: Open City, among others.