Noun that I've been watching (36)

fizz.
I usually don't indulge in something diet soft that urges
kind of an activity within me. usually
I sip a hot thing. often
I control my breath by looking out
and standing still or moving my whole body ahead.
at the same time I am writing this I think of frizz.
she was the focus of the past two days
with her anxiety. I feared her hurt heart
picked up hurtspeed and intensity as she talked on.
I was and am convinced she talks herself into unhappiness
her default position constantly if nothing's wrong
she'll find it anyway.
so fizz and then frizz.
what a life I do not lead. I'm happy to the power of
something past my counting. everywhere I look
something to love, something to celebrate
or to invent.
I came into this world my 92-year old aunt told me
just a week ago entirely wanted.
and in the picture frame supporting what I gather
and receive and know within this life
I am reminded of infinity that used to scare me.
I used to put together fear.
I was a child when I could not yet operate,
was not yet licensed to,
my various machinery, including
what I have of feeling and an intellect.
I put together partial pictures that included
vacuum space. My universe enclosed
trains going by. I was not sure
I could control a way I might continue.
Somehow at the speed of something I picked up on
how to work things, how to scope out pleasure
from the doldrums of anxiety, its stirring
prompts, perhaps by letting go.
So over the past two days I see her up close,
hear her speak, embroil a tiny surface of myself
in how she works herself into a lather over nothing,
how she does not meet her ex-
pectations, how she hurts her very heart,
and how she poisons all her paths,
then looks at me and wonders what is right
that she might feel and do and blend into.
she activates her rest stops in minute detail,
as if to make sure nothing she can feel
will ever be a soothing moment.
to make sure she's always spinning even steadily.
I don't know why.
I hear that frizz.
And I drink fizz.
I take my habit systems and I splay them,
hoping I might heal a fraction
of a self out on projection,
a self that went away
before I fell into this world.
a self we all are until someone
tenders us and we are tethered
to a pair at least of open arms
that gather us into a kindred heart.