“ in the morning
through the window shade
when the light pressed up
against your shoulder blade
i could see what you were reading
oh the glory when you ran outside
with your shirt tucked in
and your shoes untied
and you told me not to follow you
— sufjan stevens, casimir pulaski day
when she stubbed her toe or fell down in the shower the back of his neck began to ache, as if they were twins, still connected by some invisible, original loss.
it’s possible that all i can think about is your fingertips in the spaces between my ribs.
in the morning, will you want waffles or eggs?
when i was a little girl my father taught me that you cannot be both beautiful and smart. my father was big on things like priorities, things like the value of a dollar. he had science running through to the tips of his fingers and sometimes when i shuffled my feet on the carpet and then hugged him it would spark against my skin. when the time came to choose i picked beautiful, the choice that does not come easily. i do not believe that this was my father’s intention.
halve anxiety attacks. double puppies. never confuse “less” and “fewer.” show that i love you with all of my heart and my hands. learn to cook rice. learn to cook anything. be open to the future that is coming for me. be a little more brave in the dark. remember that the morning will come and you will still be next to me, still sleeping until the coffee is done and the choir across the courtyard begins to sing; softly at first, and then louder.
you are concerned with the theoreticals of love. i busy myself with the practices. that is to say, a teacher once stood at a blackboard and said every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. another teacher told me that we are all telling the same story over and over and over again because we have only one story to tell. another teacher said a lot of things and then bit my knees, my back, my fingers. i fear that i have started at the beginning.
