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by Eleanor Ball

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when I’m pulling my body out from under 
the kitchen clutter: unlit candles; dried pens; 
a half-used roll of paper towels 

tipped on its side; the red-checkered 
Better Homes & Gardens Cookbook, used once 
for frozen carrots. Everywhere, more. 

Outside, a group of sticky-fingered boys
shatters the white morning, 
smearing popsicle juice on the slide

as they beat it with sticks.
A startled robin shoots into the sky,
a streak of blood on blue.

I’m sorry to say, every morning is a morning.
Every day, a race to write every poem 
in the world. 

The inside of my mouth smells of 
gum-blood, my tongue cut to ribbons, 
the wounds laminated shut. 

I look for a pen or for something 
better. Manage your expectations 
like landing a plane 

in a river. Watch myself in the window,
sinking in a silver tube 
to the bottom.

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