I raise my body and scrape the leftover oatmeal from my bowl

into the aluminum waste bin whose lid clangs dissonantly,

and I notice crumbs fallen on the gleaming winter table

and I leave them to be read later,

divined like tea leaves.


In a dream I was invisible, 

and therefore had the power 

to glide unseen through infinite aisles of a heavenly supermarket

to take what nourishment 

or luxury I wanted,


Not unheeded like in the way when you complain

about being left by your mother they respond,

‘Oh honey, someday she will be your best friend’.

Unheeded, as in you can have as much as you want

and no one will stop you, 

nor shame you for your profane need.


I did not have the vocabulary to tell

our story then, 

or what portion of it was left for me to discern:

my vision obliterated by grief, 

my breath caught in that place in my sternum,

just south of enough. 


Be perfect in this one moment, I read.

Allow the present to swell in your breast –

it being perfect in itself –

That is the lesson I have learned here,

that there is no wrong or right way to breathe,

no moral to the story, just the whispering,

and the listening. 


And we are all already connected

more than can ever be told with smug homilies,

or removed with insane malice.