by Alex Gallo-Brown

Certain months,
the mind goes.
It can be hard to latch on
to anything,
to command or compel.
Meanwhile, the body
wanders, performs.
Does its daily
Angers no one.
Its own anger
gone, replaced by
weightlessness, calm.
The mind says,
this is progress,
a procession
But the body
First, the stomach
begins to crimp.
Then the face
shows blankness
those mornings it
bothers to look.
But the mind isn’t
It says,
grow yourself
a beard.
Remember to
brush your

Alex Gallo-Brown lives in Seattle. He has had poems in Tahoma Literary Review, The Good Men Project, The Weekly Gramma, Muse/A Journal, and Seattle Review of Books, among other publications, and was twice nominated for a Pushcart PrizeHe is a member of the outreach and education team of the Fair Work Center.