The day after

The day after
I do not leave the house
I sleep into the afternoon
spilling the sounds of the neighbours upstairs
with the slanting light of dreaming
I wake again. again.
I feel like the anvil
like the rush to tell this story
is a plummet

I forget to brush my teeth
I avoid mirrors
I eat the same meal twice
sip cold tea
watch every screen
and terrify myself
at the thought of the poem
taking root.

I am not made of gold
I am not polish. Not invincible. Not meant
for all this covet.

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