Some Days

Some days come too soon. A caul tissue-papers   
  new dawn often—still, you cannot     
    wait to rip

into the gift of it—some days beg for tearing   
  into; others have you rumpled before     you’ve hardly even

begun. Some days you want to wrap & return,    factory-set all accomplishments, then pack   
   yourself too, back

into the womb. To your mamma:   
  some days you’d jungle-gym your way     away from her, her

thick embrace, swore you’d make do without   touch but unwrapped Starbursts     in your mouth,

learning to kiss all over again—till left, till schooled   one more time & her wiping     eyes, minding the clock

for strips to blue or pink. & these days it is her   hunger, home from work,     that keeps you

wrestling corn of its husk, rinsing the greens   of their dirt, or you’d be under     ground, too. Some days

you’d take any plane away from the teal couch   splitting its seams; others, changing     channels for him

who can’t find the anchor, center-screen,   is the only place. Till 94.9 statics     as you drive, &

pastels of back-lit buttes melt you—   who wouldn’t miss a hue. Moon phase,     encore, overtime—

then sometimes you fritter whole afternoons   plucking the hairs at your panty line—     follicle lightbulbs

a large striking white, to not do something   direr. Once you backdove into a quarry,     said you’d never

surface. If one whiskey can belly your burn, can hip   your swing, a fifth can grind you     into the backseat carpet

your tongue becomes. Somedays you try to OxiClean   yourself stain-free, whiter than snow,     past snow to invisible

& when that fails, you melt. I first regretted   I’d ever been born when I felt     uncommonly

bad. You are bad. But badness is as common   as quartz, & seldom found     on its own,

in a pure state. More rare, the pressure you place   to turn entirely gneiss. & even if     this were possible,

I know how hard it is to change, when every day   you’ve been poaching an egg the same,     & it’s kept you

fed. To risk: scrambled, to risk: burnt, cursed, finally   trashed. But where has perfection     gotten you?

Oh burst yolk. Camel toe. Losing record, oh   pink slip, abyss below the curve.     Ringback tone

without end; endless plastic every place; the instant   when a call came, you swerved—     & then the doe

stepped out. The child. No one wants you   back. What has paralyzed me     most is not knowing

where to atone. Somedays I take on a butterbean   shape, cupped in the daybed; even     with mimosas pinking

out the window, a deep-set cold draws all marrow   in on itself, a sickness where each cell     collapses & one

succumbs unto despair —come, mimic the vaccine   who turns a deadly tendency inside     out, invades with flares,

fluorescent blanks, infiltrating to make a way. What good   can one bring to this world     without being here,

to carry it? Every person you’ve wanted to be   bears an overhauled cruelty. Somedays     suspicious

nectarines lingering on the counter join a shriveled   beet from the drawer, get sliced &     shredded plus hot

peppers, greens, crumbles of whatever cheese, an anointing   of nuts if we’re blessed, & yes—     call it a meal.

Somedays, this tastes like ritzy lunch, some like end-   of-the-month. It may seem haphazard &—     it was years ago, but

remember—the one time you just went without a bag,   defying time zone after zone, flew     through night & appeared

at his door, against all sense, all expectation; were not   summoned, had no idea     if the seam

had been frayed beyond repair—most wheres you want   to die. Sometimes it is all you can do:     let the moving walkway

move. This time, you are here & here you hit the aisle   in stride. It may not be your fault but     it is, sometimes,

your time.

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