a literary arts journal
On Mornings
Michelle Li
Before they die mornings taste like mint toothpaste.
I had been asleep before, safe from sad news,
rocking myself dead by the sink.
The splintering of smoldering water
snapping like guitar strings in the marble bathtub
& autumn’s peach light through the slant of patterned window
tug my eyelids open, pink and thinning like rice paper.
News from the radio downstairs and the metallic clank of oven plates.
A male voice: the earthquake in Afghanistan
and Israeli soldiers in Gaza.
Over a thousand dead, he says. But first, Trump’s plans for 2024…
My feet are cold. I am sorry.
I let the water run and a tiny voice inside me goes on
and on & on, narrating the color/texture of the sky/
the strands/location of hair on the tile floor/the scent of warm garlic bread.
I cherry-pick the ripest words, their insides fresh with tangy pulp,
pluck them from my brain stem, trace them in the palm of my hand.
I tell myself I can write this goddamn poem.
The water is running and draws up in white wisps &
I look into the sweating mirror and by habit, tell myself to stay alive today,
forgetting what I think of the sky, the hair, the bread,
and no, I suddenly cannot write the goddamn poem anymore.
Ridiculous how depression takes the place of beautiful thought.
At least I have the dog-eyed faith of God.
I’m telling you, love is almost religion, and writing is love.
I remember begging him for a talent and he handed me a life
And I took it as a sign.
Whatever. I will not forget next time.
Downstairs, an ad on Pantene shampoo.