half-mast

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good morning.

a slaughtered wine bottle relaxes
in the sink's dishsoap sauna,
shared with a knit rag
and last night's tv dinner styrofoam.

you take pride in that you have never left the
faucet running
like your mother sometimes did.

you abandon this still life for
other ones, yes,
the bookshelves seldom falter
and the floor boards seldom wave,
but you tuck yourself into bed again
and peel the waistband of your panties from your cabin fever sweat
to push your hand inside, reaching for the cookie jar.

take comfort, little one.
masquerades swim outside your house,
where eyebrows are forever
pinched in rage
at you.

take comfort, little one.
some choose to let others hold it for them
or choose to not let it be held at all
but you hold yourself like a flag
till you
begin to billow





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