Feb 01

Alacrity

There is sunshine this morning. 
It warps the frost on the window,
melts frozen feathers into my palm, 
dampens the folded cuff of my coat. 
I'm not waiting for anyone. 

This morning there is music resonating
down the hallway at school. 
Someone stands in the center of a room to my right,
mouth open,
dancing with words,
smiling only half as wide as me. 

There's ink on my wrist,
blued from writing late into the night 
when my bare feet refused to walk
in the solitary dark to the cold sink down the hall, 
wash my hands
with frothy soap under endless water. 

I wish for a fleeting second I could light a tall candle,
sit criss crossed on my bedroom floor, 
watch the wax tip into the tilting Earth
as I suffocate the gap between night and day. 

Instead, I press my head down, 
will myself to burn the memory
of the dancing figure 
and the joy we pour from our mouths 
when there's sunshine in the morning 
and music, also. 

I tell myself I am ready,
and so, I become it.