“BREAKFAST TABLE”

Do you think things that taste sour feel misunderstood?

Do you believe the zest of that mandarin, knowing that

no one will ever truly understand its innate sweetness,

feels pain?

What about the color grey? Does it yearn with ashy tenderness?

Do the keys of my piano weep, secretly in the moonlight? 

How can I exist without seeing it everywhere and in everything?

How do I be, consciously, in this excruciatingly marvelous universe, 

without constantly feeling this inconceivable heft?

Why, bodies around me seem to be doing it effortlessly,

free floating in their floral skirts and cowboy boots,

singing their gleeful melodies, embracing one another.

Sometimes I wish I could, too,

sometimes I wish I could sleep,

sometimes I wish I could feed,

but I was the child who said sorry 

to inanimate objects.

And as I left the breakfast table, 

on my own, every morning, I 

would meticulously ensure that

the teacup touched the teapot,

and the teapot touched the napkin,

and the napkin touched the plate,

and the plate touched the milk bottle,

so that no soul felt alone.

So that there was no pain,

no gut wrenching despair, 

no heart shattering grief

left on the breakfast table.

M.L. December ‘24