1. You will make too much coffee.
The pot that once held
too little for you both
will be almost full
as it stares back at you,
black and cold.
You will try to reheat it,
coax warmth into your cup,
into your smile,
into your heart...
you will fail.
2. The bed will suddenly feel taller,
like you are balancing
pillows on tight rope,
like the crowd is waiting
for you to fall-
you must not fall-
—-you will fall.
Sleep will hide from you
until you allow yourself
to stop looking.
Get up,
drink the cold coffee,
read a book.
You will fall asleep
in the chair that is meant
to hold one.
3. You will stop eating.
Dinner time
will lose it’s magic,
and the dishes
will not be clean
the next time you look
in the cupboards.
Tomatoes will rot and
oranges will grow hard,
because there are not
enough mouths to fill
with good things.
You cannot fill yourself
with good things,
so you will stop trying
altogether.
4. People will ask how you are.
You will paint a smile
on your aching face,
will chirp “fine”
will lie, “great”
will say “hanging in there,”
will stain the darkest night
a sunny yellow
and pretend that
you are not broken.
You will forbid yourself to cry...
You will cry.
You will cry.
5. You will leak
all of your sorrow
onto your pillow,
your sleeve,
your son’s favorite stuffed bear.
Your head will fog
with unshed precipitation,
and your voice will grow
deep and rough,
until you do not recognize it.
You will stop talking
altogether.
Words
take too much effort
and there is no one
to hear you anyway
You will stop talking
altogether.
Words
take too much effort
and there is no one
to hear you anyway
6. You will survive.
You will not know how
it happens,
or when,
but some morning,
you will drink
all the coffee.
You will bake more bread.
You will sleep.
You will smile.
You will sing.
You will sing.
You’ll survive.
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