by Christine Adams Beckett
Morning offers a handful of
Seconds hidden in comforting
Ignorance, where consciousness
Is at the end of a flickering
Tunnel, shrouding itself behind a linen
Curtain of eyelashes.
When the corner of the eye
Is pasted shut, defensively
Hiding thoughts that are
Too heavy to lie in the
Buoyancy of sleep, a god
Will take you in flight
Over lakes, evergreen and deciduous forests,
Childhood homes, European castles,
And towering skylines
Illuminated by Edison’s stars.
The theatre of the absurd
Projected to the inside of
An eyelid turns reels of the self, losing teeth,
Falling from heights unfathomable,
Unprepared for a calculus exam,
Losing hair in clumps, turning colors,
And running naked through rainy streets
Without an umbrella.
Loved ones recently gone take
Animated shape, offering advice
And a fine impersonation of
Tony Bennet, introductions to
Famous relatives you never knew you had.
The body heavy from immobility,
But light from fasting,
Parched from drinking from the
Will take a moment to stretch,
To sweep away the sands
And trick you out of the initial wakeful moments
When all seems intact.
While still horizontal,
You’d swear his lungs still inflate,
His veins pump blue blood
His hand extends an impossibly large mug of coffee
Instead of singing a passable version of
Just the Way You look Tonight.
The pillow remains unperturbed,
The bed empty, the grind of coffee beans
Silent. Instead of mourning him,
You look forward to somehow finding