National Poetry Month 2021

q: give me your morning?

a: lovemaking puts me to bed; a silence keeps me there. l wake at the same hour each morning. I look at the time, 7:27 a.m. /// I look over and watch him breathe, he is flying. I’ve landed and I’m hungry. I wake to the chill of the bathroom floor and sleepily piss. I take my powdered vitamins and swallow. Now, I let them swim inside me. I put water to boil and toast two pieces of toast. He is up and we stay quiet the first half hour of our day. It is a kindness we have acquired after almost three years together. The water is boiling. The toast has popped up. He is cutting the grapefruit for us. The workers outside are working on something, always screaming, always laughing. I stir my decaf and cream. Spread marmalade from France on a crunchy piece of toast. I enjoy it with a sip of hot decaf, feeling it slip down my throat. I finish and start my skin routine. I wash my face with semi-expensive products I got for sale during Valentine’s Day. I wash, tone and moisturize. Floss. Brush my teeth and tongue till they bleed. Douse myself with Holy Water perfume and put on a flannel and some stretchy pants I bought at Walmart because I’m trash just like everyone else. I continue with this skin routine and put rose oil all over my face and neck and begin my Gua Sha face yoga technique. I go at it for 10 minutes and work out the knots all over my neck, jaw and face. I proceed to either pulling a tarot card or I sit down to write a poem—write anything really. I start with the hands, then the mind—the healing gets jostled up sometimes during these sessions, sometimes not. Today, I am writing this. This mundanity. This everyday occurrence. This splice.

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