Still Life Morrow
I’d catch to peel from my tongue.
It spoke to how good I was at being
alone. This morning I sit in the still
kitchen, rued by autumn passing
me outside. Still, I cut into my omelet.
“Turn off the static,” my therapist says.
“Taste what you swallow.” Inside, I feel
water burst from the baby bellas. I wish
I were staring at a still life, a bowl of cactus
fruit maybe, or rotted watermelon, and not
this wintry scene of the road I’ve just taken.
In it, rises our breath to the lone mountains,
as layers of rain gloss us abundantly.