minutesofhoney

Good Days, Good Nights

In Poetry on March 6, 2012 at 3:53 pm

On good days, I pluck pastries from trays.  My breath curls in walk-in freezers, and I don’t smudge the frosting much.

On good days, the blues cat curls round my register and asks how’s things?  He gives me names, which the library turns into CDs.

On good days, the sun harrasses my kitchen windows so much that when I come home and twist the mounted wood-wall lamp, my pot of mint is an obese tabletop Buddha.  It’s an absolute weed, an aesex jackrabbit, and we laugh together at how the world is so not wrong: me and shoots of babies doing dinner.

Good nights don’t care that my house isn’t breathing downstairs when I’m laying alone in my long, low bedroom that feels like the inside of a bullet.  A cozy one, to be sure, full with floor pillows and jewelry.

Good nights wrap their hands around a guitar neck or a flute head and sing loud.

Good nights are hard to come by.  But bad ones are, too.  Mostly there’s just this longing for you.  Still I do crawl out of my covers in dim lamplight and press my hands upon the floor.  My prayer is a whole one, even if by goodnight, I’m not.

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