For a Reason

My mother always made her bed. Even after a leg amputation, she still made her bed every day. I never did when I was at home, yet she would do it for me. It is very likely that she spoiled me, but it was - for a reason.

I remember going back into the house for the first time after she was gone and how afraid I was. Not afraid of anything materially horrific but more of how quickly and profoundly our lives were changed. I walked in the house and went to her bedroom. The bed was unmade and I just can't forget the way that made me feel.

So that's why I like to make my bed - for a reason

The Color of Rachmanus

Complacency spreads into horizons and sinks like missing suns in sated souls satisfactory to all good rules of comfort
for they are good and equally lonely

And here I want to spread apple butter
from a forgotten jar my mom had at home,
squish white bread into perfect little cubes
and curl my toes on warm concrete curbs
turning me the purple of fake-grape popsicles

and then,

I could see the sun turning all orange
so perfectly round and thrilling
(setting here and spreading quietly)