Sleeping in with Saturday

Wake up and try to recall;
forget, and go back to sleep.
Hopscotch back to the starting line.
Hold my hand and I'll show you
the precise angle of my foot when
I took the first step, but let's not
count the ones I retraced--not yet.
Days like this never come.
I break the zipper on
my favorite pair of jeans.
I rip out the pockets
and constrict my wrists with the
suspended belt. Smile,
and call me mad.
Night comes with cold. I pour
wine from a box, wishing it was
whiskey, and trace the rivers
on a map of India with my bare
ring finger. I'm careful not to spill.
Morning is late again. I pretend
I had never really woken up,
wrapped in a new weekend,
sleeping in with Saturday.
My breath is damp, thick
with fermented conversations
I had never spoken--not yet.
Days like this never come.

I watch from the porch

I watch from the porch as he laughs indoors. Almost night--lies don't count in the dark. The dog catches flies in the light from the kitchen with broken teeth; I catch only what I can--sometimes, rare fireflies in the jar he dropped and nearly broke last year. Tonight, I catch my breath, and I catch his words when clear and desperate. Some are lucky enough to not be careless, not to be netted by the screen in the door, carried by whatever impulse carried me. I haven't swept this threshold in four angry weeks of almost night, and he hasn't left his room. But he's laughed.