Mornings are not made for pretence;
they are not voyeurs, either,
but they are concerned with
or a state of being bare that tends to embarrass.
And, because they are cruel in this way,
they watch our fingers
as they point to each glowing fragment
of last night’s dream,
one that floats on the mirrored steam
of the kettle,
one that stitches its initials into
clothes that can withstand the day
and the one that shades
the shadow of the fig tree.
The belief that in a beginning is an end
is a dangerous belief
and not so much belief
as artifice. I am sure that the mother
who wakes in the small hours
will tell you as much, she who has
experienced childbirth and an intimacy with days,
for the sun and the wet postnatal head
do not begin clean. As
fruit does not begin, as
language does not begin,
as there is no telos and no origin
and any fantasy of such is a violence.
And in peace, there is exposure:
the release from slumber, the fresh speech
of she who dreamt of demanding newness
but could not find the words.
Image by Michelle Mendieta Mean
Categories: Resident Poet