Solace

The darker the days

the deeper my roots reach

for this whisper we call solace.

I press into boiling kettles

and vintage quilts

I wash by hand in the bathroom sink.

 

I clear out the objects of seasons past,

pictures I've stopped seeing

when I pass by them on the wall.

I call about the insurance policy

and rip out the shower caulk

that makes me feel like a failure.

 

I wish I could say there is some

fancy hocus pocus that

sprinkles through my days,

but each one begins and

ends with me

just me

laying in my bed,

seeking assurance in my breath

and clinging to this mantra:

Just be a body.

And I let myself be covered.

I let myself be held.