sometimes, the morning after
when my eyelids tow the
line between a bruise
and a pinch

i take apart
my sharps box, look at all
the pieces

just to give the sadness
a direction, something to do

i number the needles, imagine
their ancestry

was this one the flash of sun
on the parked car

or the co-worker proud of
her new perfume

or the first date i spent
just a bit too long in
the coffee shop

or the night of sixteen
minutes of sleep

or the forty seconds too
long between meals

or the bouquet of smokers
outside the train i could
not find a way past

or maybe

it was the day
the pressure dropped & the
clouds pulled the covers
over the city

or when the cortisol
ran its hands across
my neck

or when the cerulean tempest of
this life sentence clawed loud
enough for the morning
finches to shake from
the hydrangeas and i
cried as the sun i can
never again look at
rose in the

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