“Props and other disinherited
paraphernalia are never enough.”
—Susan Howe
My hands cradle my face,
covering my dead eyes.
Worn thin like ragged cloth,
I am tired of my life:
Before sunrise I wake,
slowly move down the stairs,
and start again. Morning
rituals of coffee
keep the old dramas near,
private. I want to wail,
long howls into the dark.
Instead, I feed the dog,
whose tail wags happily
as she eats her kibble.
(August 9, 2021)
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