nighttime routine
Tonight
I will make, eat, and put away a dish.
I’ll do three verbs to one object
while somewhere, a girl of 30
who likes food and turns of phrases just the same
looks for her place in a sentence that isn’t a footnote or the end.
Tonight
I will bathe in water I think is too lukewarm
or, god forbid, too hard
while somewhere, a girl covered in debris
wonders how a liquid can feel a certain way
besides necessary.
Tonight
I will pull a cover over my body,
only to sleep — not to rest.
My chest will feel heavy and I’ll learn gravity is nothing
but thoughts and the fear of tomorrow.
I’ll say a prayer, which —
Every cell in my body will be afraid,
confused and rampant;
an impending iPhone alarm or siren
sooner or later will ring,
will bring
Nothing.
What are we all sleeping for if we can barely dream?
I’ll toss to my left because things aren’t right; nothing feels right
I’ll flip my pillow, searching for warmth this time
I’ll turn onto my bad shoulder to feel a pain that at least makes a bit of sense
I’ll open a window to let in the wind;
then I’ll close it halfway because I’m a bit too afraid of the world
I’ll think of my mom and dad, their voices and smells and shapes;
but I won’t call them
I’ll take deep breaths and wonder why my heart won’t slow,
why my hair won’t grow
why my blood won’t flow
when the boom might blow
and just before I slip into sleep I’ll wonder,
lips torn and fists clenched,
that perhaps I don’t have a nervous system as much as I just am a nervous system,
and perhaps I don’t have a right to fear or even insomnia -
the melatonin fighting to be relevant in a body that will wake tomorrow.
And maybe a poem isn’t even a drop in the bucket
Isn’t even a poem
Isn’t even
Isn’t.
I’ll close my eyes and know with some degree of certainty:
tomorrow they will open
and somehow it will still be the same day
the same day
the same day;
except
an entire civilization will have died before I get out of bed.
Tonight
I’ll lay awake again, wondering if there’s a better way to live instead.