Spell to Begin Again
I wake with a black shroud
draped over my head, because
of windows, because the sun
insists with its terrible heat.
I unravel myself to the light,
weak-knit as I am, spill
my limbs onto the floor
until they start to obey.
Each hour is molasses,
spooned into my maw
by an anxious mother
to hide the bitter taste
of medicine underneath.
I trudge and amble
with nervous hands,
wear narrow paths into
the carpet, into the wood
of the floor underneath.
Each day the things I want
pile up like dead leaves
until I must find the big
rusted barrel, and burn them.
Each time, in the embers,
a new shape rustling to life.
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