X Paper two—peer edits
X Chem homework
X Read paper 1, 2—for annotated bib  
X Bio notes
    Read book—your favorite, snuggle up and drift away
X Bio Exam
X Bio reading 1, 2, 3
X Chem notes
    Read Book—the one on your shelf for ages
X Chem reading 1, 2, 3, 4
X Write paper one—second draft
X Bio homework
    Write book—this has been your dream since you were a kid
X Write paper three—first draft
X Write poem—last thing before bedtime

A magic trick? A flash of cards,
a sleight of hand, morning to-do lists.

I’ve tried them all. Scribblings on
sticky notes, journals entries, scraps.

A month’s work rolled and
stuffed all into one day.

But I feel featherlight without
the words weighing down my flight.

Another task? I'll just tack it on
— no big deal when I feel so free.

It always hits me late at night, when
I look back on my lists and lists and cry.

You can’t finish a month ahead,
when you’re always a month behind.

But tomorrow — maybe tomorrow,
I’ll try my magic trick again.
  
It’s only a matter of time.

~~~together you fight, together you succeed
                        Leaving memories behind, you perform risky deeds

Get your bag for the day.
Fill it with the essentials:  
Wallet Keys Phone Mace Pens Pocket-knife Lotion ID card Whistle Tampons.
Head out.
Double check that the door is locked.
Triple check. (Are you really sure?)
Walk to the subway.
Look at the sky. The sun is shining. (It always is.)
Look behind you. (Double check.)
Stroll. (But not too slow.)
Get to the station.
Swipe your card.
Drop a dollar in the guitar case of a performer.
Smile.
Avoid eye contact with anyone else.
Don’t smile.
Grip your bag. Tight.
Get off the train.
Walk up the stairs.
Walk into the street.
Look at the sky. The sun is still shining. (It always is.)

She pins her hair back
twenty-three and resolute, baby on her hip
and says goodbye forever
Her eyes catch on a single point, somewhere
in the hazy distance and she sets to it
makes a life
gets **** done

There’s no time to consider,
to touch the centre of the windstorm that compels her
it only winds her tighter
and because there’s laundry to do, and she likes things
neat and tidy
she carves herself up into glistening pieces
and leaves them there—
in the hot Paraguayan sun
in the endless cold Prairie snow
when her children disappear with terrible secrets
She skillfully wraps each fluttering fragment
and gives it away, no longer her concern
God will take care of it
lucky *******
and I am left with none,
or one

I’ve only ever had a part of her
the one that read the rules and promised
clean clothes, a roof, full stomach—
her threadbare heart
elsewhere

Maybe she’s tired, like I am now—
my own list in hand
To feel is the most demanding
of tasks

Good morning!
It’s tomrrow now,

I’ll leave the to-do list
Written on your arm.

It won’t be numbered,
There’s no need.

My life is beginning
to feel like
a patchwork quilt
of deadlines
and tasks.
Even doing nothing
has started to seem
like something to do,
just another thing
to check off my
list,
with a certain amount
of time allotted for it,
and a clear time
to move on to
the next thing,
lest I fall behind.
Weeks,
days,
sometimes even
hours
are divided
and categorized
by what I should be
doing
in them.
I don't allow
any passion projects
too engrossing
or time-consuming
for fear of
losing
              myself
                              in
 ­                                     it
and forgetting my responsibilities.
All I can think
when my heart
nudges me to
read a book
or
write a story
is that I have
no time,
no time,
no time
for such things,
and that I must be
conscientious before, and over, content.