Ritual Awakenings

on the ground in the dark, like a snail creeping slowly toward salt, there's a feeling inside that i know very well, and it unnerves me. it feels like being out of control again. it feels like wiping dust from the ceiling fan and watching it gather again. it feels like stepping into the rift in space-time that visits me when it's hungry again, and i'm afraid.

I wake up feeling new. It's fall. I stretch out gently in bed under my orange duvet, and a sunbeam warms my shoulder. Nothing is better than this. My husband brews steaming-hot Colombian coffee downstairs, and he pours it into a blue ceramic mug, and he adds cream and sugar and too much cinnamon, and he brings it to me. There's a chill that comes from a crack in the window. Today we're picking apples.

We get in the car, and I have my makeup done, and I'm wearing my favorite sweater that hangs loosely around my arms and waist. 10 minutes down the road, we stop for breakfast. Fried eggs. Bacon. Hash browns. Ketchup. Thin-sliced sourdough toast with melted butter and grape jelly. There's nothing to worry about. We see who can build the tallest half-and-half pyramid, and when his falls, he knocks mine over, and we put our hands over our mouths and laugh quietly. I see the most beautiful trees I've ever seen in my life along the dirt road to the orchard.

Three-dollar gourds. Pictures. Splotchy-red noses. Kids running in rainboots from their parents through odd-hanging branches, broken by late snow. Thin fog. Wafts of hay and hot cider. I send pictures to my Dad and Mom, and they reply "Cute, have fun!" with a fall leaf emoji and "God bless you and the family. Have a great time. Hugs. Hope we can talk on the phone soon" with heart and prayer hand emojis.

Home now. Chunky knit blanket. Mulled wine candle. Romcom from the 80s with John Cusack, or someone or something else. I'm just saying things. You're not meant to just say things in poems; you have to say things for a reason. you have to say things that matter. it's so cold outside, isn't it? there's such a chill.

it feels like. it feels like a snail creeping slowly toward salt on the ground in the dark. it's a feeling that i know very well. it feels like dying, like the spirit ripping from the body and taking another form, and when the new form opens its eyes, it can't remember who it was in that past life, but that past life comes back in pieces like a dream, vague and mixed up and difficult to believe. i want to remember that dream so badly. my conviction. i strain on the ground in the dark.

remember! remember! remember!

i can't. it feels like wiping dust from the ceiling fan and watching it gather again. it feels like losing control. i step into the rift because i know that it's hungry.

I wake up feeling new.