Bend

 

I busy myself with monotonous repetition of brushing my teeth

turning on the dishwasher, setting my alarm

closing my eyes

night after night after night.

I do it with obedience, with faith, with fear.

 

I can see, behind my eyelids,

the morning light in my window is sharp-edged, clean.

Something small and silent, 

persistent, colorful that

crept under my door as I slept;

I push back the covers.

My cat, joyous,

pushes her nose into mine.  She tells me

the day is new.

This day is new.

 

My feet brush the chilly floor.

The harsh bathroom light

hits me in the face;

opens my eyes.

 

I leave the dishes in the dishwasher

I leave last night’s crumbs on the counter

I rip up my to-do list.

I float outside, smile at the people walking by

with their dogs, their masks, their coffee cups.

My feet are bare

my skin is cool

the morning light, clean.

 

The air 

silky and rough

soothing, alarming

a whisper, a refrain

high-pitched, vibrating,

an echo

a song.

I bend into the air now.

Now –

the morning light, 

clean

clear

lays a palm on my cheek

touching me like a lifelong friend.

​