By Jane Tawel
January 30, 2020
Since it all began, at least if not more.
I fall-down daily,
in a mess
amongst the pots and pans,
or dandelions and weeds.
And I don’t get back up,
But lie crumpled where I fell
until I suck each bloody finger;
Or lick a tissue I find in a linty pocket,
winding-up flimsy paper,
into a pointy little wet periscope,
And dab my skinned knees until the tissue runs red.
I leave a bit of skin in every day’s hard pavement.
Today I wake and don’t want to.
I feel it might all be over,
and I can’t get my head working right and my body won’t unwind to stand.
I tell myself all the things I’ve always told myself
about God and life and love.
And I can’t seem to believe in any of it, long enough to turn the bathroom light on.
So, I sit in the dark
on porcelain as cold as a tomb,
running out of stored tears and excuses,
until I am dry.
I unwind fragile paper,
meant only for the garbage pile, after serving me;
rolling it out like a banner on the battlements,
declaring war on this new day.
Then I rise and stumble forth.