Morning Bread

Give her an eerie sunrise, fennel
and mirth, a violin's silken cry
to rub the nub of her shoulder
blades, and a piece of toast the
color of unwashed hair.

Give her her mothers fingers pulling
tubes of lipstick across her face, or
black paper cut outs of bats and other
mid morning creatures to hang
on the walls as proclamation to
the spectacle of nursery rhymes
and ghosts who glide unbidden
into the awkward pentameter of
teeth grinding, elbows bruising,
eyes thick and heavy with sleep puss,
bodies too ripe with morning.

Give her the bread that you tease her to
eat slathered in butter, dripping
with thick honey that it might
stick to her unformed body, help
the gestation move like the
morning itself waxing underneath
the hedge groves.

Give her sunlight, and that man who
as a child held her by the hands and spun
her around and around until she fell dizzy
and faint of the fizzling grass in fits of
hyperventilating glee.

Give her salvation before she became
glib. Food before she became barren
from it's dangers. Give her the ache
of morning-

the child sits astride a desk, watching
light pour into the room like a glass
overflowing from a pitcher of too much
cold water, shocking her,
watch the bread in her hand,
watch the lips smack and devoir, watch
how unaware she chews, swallows, waits,
watches.