Pulling in deep to hear him say, half asleep, “I can do it.”
Can you do it on command; can you do it without hands?
I mumble, “give me a modicum of good sleep.”
Head nuzzling under his chin.
“Let’s doze. The world wants me awake; but, I’m not ready to face it.”
A hand moves to rest on an ass.
I hear a man’s bicycle’s spokes whir by my open window and he hums beautifully as he rides.
I slip from the bed’s cocoon, to part and peak through my blinds’ slats; but, he’s already breezed by.
The neighbors putter in the shared garden, a new bird feeder being installed.
I get dressed to do an investigative prowl around my block before coffee.
As I walk, I understand that I am created by intersections of energetic threads being woven together by a macro loom.
And, I remember: if you fold shoulders and make yourself small, mija, that is how people will treat you.
And, a voice in a void is worthless without resonance. Show me your panacea, boy.
Echoes of Sette in cassettes.
Pure white noise is the sound of a resonant channel chattering in the background. Before we had silicon and screens, they used the rubbing of crickets’ legs, the guttural thrust of a frog’s croak. Working like a little whirling dervish screw driving its way into foreheads.
And, I return. And, the caffeine calls. And, my pour over waits for the water to boil.