Day 811, September 21, 2022


I am taller than I am short, 
more tired when I am awake, 
dreaming of cool summer evenings 
and the dew dampening my shoes in the morning. 

In the morning 
when it is still mostly dark, 
I say little 
and exercise will power, 
and routine. 

When my grandfather first arrived in this country, 
he did his morning stretches 
while watching Sesame Street 
to practice his English. 

I imagine his body as a thing of momentum, 
rather than a thing to be used up. 

He was a man of maintenance. 

I eat too much and stay up too late 
to covet my body as well as he did, 
the lithe dancer. 

I nearly napped 
even as synapses crackled and popped around me. 

How many dreams were extinguished 
even as I waited for a question to be answered. 

Perhaps a simple life 
means one where I have no aspiration, 
no lust, 
no linger. 

I touch finger to nose 
and feel a face that is becoming less familiar. 

When I was born 
my mother had a sleeve of Oreo cookies on the bedside table. 
As a baby, 
my face was carefully scratched, 
and my skull rubbed smooth 
by the grip of a forceps, 
like a thumb print. 

The day is already past, 
and it is hard to know what to remember anymore.


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