The sun glints on my mirror again,
and I wake up, make a cup of coffee,
wash myself, and eventually, I’d
wake up.
The door is locked again, and the key
is lost somewhere in the pockets of my
***** jeans in the laundry. Just a typical
Sunday morning. Today,
I am finding the center of my soul, but right
now, I’m in all the typicality of
myself.
Just typical to sit in the dining area,
arrange the set of knives on the table,
rearrange the plates, and clean
the table, erase the smudges of
the dried up spittle (or whatever
that liquid is) from last night. Look,
rise, go to the cupboard, and search
for things you don’t normally touch—
not like before—there’s the bottle of
pills, the framed pictures of your
beloveds, numbered them, dated them,
like arranged tombstones on a stifled cemetery.
Smile, gorge, bask on the images, memories
unfolding high and low; how they’d always
say you’re a sick person. Low and sick. Like the way
everything goes.
Now, look for the center of your soul,
find the sharpest knife on the set, and
prepare
dinner.
It’s a miracle again, to sleep
tonight.
Not another one of
this.
