Patience

Patience

by CL Bledsoe


Some morning I will scramble to the bathroom door,
that mirror, fogged over with waking,
and see myself naked, thick
and remember—

it's the tweezing of the eyebrows, makes them thin,
not the press of air
against my face. It's blinking, keeps the eyes moist,
not the liquid
dripping from the roof of the world, that lake above
where an old man full of ideas waits,
counting his thumbs and painting them clear.
Before the day can start, someone
has to call it. This is the purpose of need,
the exercise of the ears, to hear
that old man nod off, and Patience
holding her breath
until his chin strikes his chest.

If I rise before she pounces,
I'll remember. Nothing more
can be wished for or earned.
Pull her hair. Tie her shoes together.
Catch her before she loses her name.


Posted over on Ken Again