Breakfast 

Published in Palimpsest
2011

I

a blue bowl,
a tiny cobalt
bowl, and my mother,
offering? begging.

a blue bowl,
so very full
of oatmeal in skim milk.
a spoon made for toddlers. 

my mother on her knees,
next to my bed,
her head shakes; she cant think.
that bowl in her hands. 

my hands too big
for the shrunken wrists
recoiled from the bowl
so very full.

II

            It’s the safest room in the house, painted mint green, with no windows to let anything in. The light reflected off of the pigment sinks into my skin.
            The tile, chilly like my skin, keeps me up, holds what little weight. From the floor the ceilings seem higher than they are. They are what contains me.
            There is only enough room for me and the various tubes of toothpaste and hand soap, but they are tucked safely away behind a cabinet door. I cannot see them. The atoms in the air are so riled up with energy, so intent on crashing into each other. The fan breathes out white noise – a moment unwoven and expanded, as to avoid the one to follow. This one will last forever.
            On the vibrant pastel wall, dogs sit upright around a table. One says to another hey, it’ll be all right; she’ll take you back. Or well fuck you Harry that’s all I’ve got. The room they sit in is dark, only a painted glass light above the green felt glows and catches the smoke from their cubans. Harry holds an ace between the pads of his paw underneath the table. Next to that is a portrait of Dad, in oil crayons. His head is a kidney bean. He floats on no shoulders in a state of hysteria.
            The vent next to me is so warm. 

---

Its red round weight in my palm

Marbles thrust
From a shattered penny jar.
The shards scattered, 
Too, and
Sliced his fingers when he tried to clean
My clattering mess –
Tried to understand the
Convoluted cat’s eye
I’d left twisted in 
Round glass. 

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Thank you to Jean Yoon for photos on About Me and Writing pages
All other images and writing samples are Copyright Grace Eire