This Morning
by Paryn Grodi
a beam of light
slipped through the blinds
and pooled on my bed. I
tried to plug the crack
with my fat fingers,
but in five minutes,
I was up to my waist
in sunshine. So I yanked
off my flannels, kicked
away the white socks,
and bathed.
The sunshine was warm,
not like summer, but
like a compliment: I mean,
you could feel it inside,
just above the bellybutton
bursting like a firework
from the crown of your head
to the tips of your toes.
The room kept filling
until my feet lost contact
with the carpet, and I floated
on my back like an ice cube
in lemonade. The ceiling
hung inches above my face,
so I breathed out
until I was a stone.
When I sank, I think
I saw the meaning
of life—it was shapeless,
open like a summer sky.
I thought yes
but had no idea
how to bottle it.
I grabbed and missed, swiped
but it dodged again. Palmful
after palmful of sunshine
until my hands were bleached white,
empty.
My lungs tried crawling
through my ribcage; my eyes
sizzled like eggs in butter.
My mouth gaped,
drank in the room like a drain,
then I sprawled on the floor,
wet with a distended belly: pregnant
with something I didn’t know.
Scared by everything I now did.