The morning alarm has fried us,
your handcuffs bright and tough.
You turn in circles,
over flowers,
under sun.
I shovel a path with a sleepy head.
That old pace you hate,
stopping for tea,
breathing deeply.
Under clothes, skin is so thin.
Under fog, my face is only sand
I've wished you'd stomp, kick
and let me swim.
My feet bare in mud, you're locked up.
Your cigarettes lay behind nailed down shades.
Your tv screen is covered in blankets.
I sit down to write,
drip wax,
keep awake,
water your plants with a light from the street.
Cold soup and salad keep me full,
and you don't stop me as I walk out the door
to be sure you are the center of this world.
That television lit our evenings.
Rain kept us in, the city kept us sleeping.
Remember for a moment, a sober morning.
A cigarette in bed, hard look at the ceiling.
You were quick to open windows, let in noise,
raise the voice.
And I lie coughing, tongue in a web for the winter.
I know what spring is like, it's still the way I left it.
I still believe I'm alright here, this second year.
Dreams are brittle but you are tied up,
bright and tough.

03/21/2005

Posted on 03/22/2005
Copyright © 2025 Kimberly Rhode