White Days

the sun always comes up

     yet some
     days the white 
suffocate lowers           
like snowy exhaust
designed to trick you
into death

these are the days
I like best

the days that justify
solitary confinement,
the laconic breath
of warm tea drifting to meet
earth’s skullcap

                       when I was young
                       you said you were my sun
                               the walls sequestered
                               eternal noon, enclosed
                               forever (standing up)
white days 
wall thick invisible

white days
hold sound down,
smell parsnip and
               staple, quilt 
aneurysm, quivering 
pin heads, shivering
paper ridges—
      invitations to
      open the skin

Copyright © 2014 by Priscilla Becker. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on February 6, 2014. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

About this Poem

"'White Days' works the subterfuge of white—isolation, asylum, immolation; the symbolic cloud is on your side, and over it."
—Priscilla Becker