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.