they call it "breaking the fast", in other words:
like tending tomato plants, or indeed, loving a man.
you wake up one day
and grow tired of his cooking.
it's not the drug, but it's the sound the eggs make when your fists dare to crush them
the crisp dew before the house wakes,
before the sun's set in to seep through pores
and the house is as cold as the slime yolk in your hand, and your hand is as cold
as grave headstones.
that's when your breathing
and you're caving in about to fracture,
about to chase after your ghosts
and their omelettes.
a routine's a routine's a routine's a circle;
and the breaking is U
always you, the problem, the missing piece.
there's want to spill out everywhere until you can settle in
between the ridges on the vinyl floor,
to squeeze in a small space—
see how the yolk drips patterns on the glass?
and the cool of the dank a/c in the air;
you're the wanting of being, and the being of nothing.
you must become the wind,
free! free at last!
face the truths in the soft embryos
the ones that crack before they're hatched,
the ones we're all afraid of.
no one can love you as you love yourself; that's what they tell you after
to speak to someone who might understand the cadence of these words,
sweep you off the floor, mend the jagged edges of your spine and sooth your stones.
your's not the kind of love Fair people give, but the kind of love you want to give,
see the brilliance of a circle:
sun and moon and atoms of soul,
and eggs as white and pure as pearls,
sweet as the rum drops to the tongue—
there will always come a time for lunch.