[I didn't ask myself why]

I didn't ask myself why

at 4:30 a.m. so I half slept

over a skillet frying shredded

 

carrots till they were crisp

and stringy and doused them

with cloudy vinegar to eat in bed,

 

filled up holes from yesterday

and also the holes from tomorrow,

having drunk enough coffee to think so far ahead.

 

I was mostly a head

slowly becoming a body

with a face and a voice until 9:56,

 

when Leo found a hole in his day

and walked through my door

wearing his motorcycle helmet like an astronaut

 

stepping onto the moon. I loved his tired

smile and his blue eyes shining

at me, over me, through me, Jesus—

 

the gravity changed in my room

until it was time for him to go to work

and time for me to go outside,

 

and I wondered if it were just me or was it sad here too?

My neighborhood turned bioluminescent and blue and lemon

in the late afternoon and the best way

 

to catch the light is to run

through it, to move the street

beneath me as the singular diviner

 

of how I let the city touch me,

how much I let it take.

When I got home I rolled

 

a bottle of Cynar over my thighs

and spilled it down my legs,

all over my hands.

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