Apricots woolly by the hospital bed,
a meal of light. The light falls
on my mother’s hands.
So much sunlight falls
and does not get up
but its hands
pick up the dark and go on.
Things are heavy because
we try to carry them.
My mother said, “in this lifetime,
learn to be alone.” I cut
my hair in the mirror,
attempt poems about the breakfast table
with cereal and figs.
Good enough.
I pour milk,
falling
through a shitty apartment,
a brief depression. I fall in love,
mirrored in satsumas, perfumes and midnight.
Not enough. I turn the page but I’m still
reading the novel my mother wrote me.
The room with the view.
The wide sargasso sea.
A pair of hands tends me.
Loneliness is an imaginary thing,
but so is the entire country.
You try. There are ceilings
you hold up
like heavens.