Saffron Morning

Brothers and sisters,
are you eating
or only pretending to
so the body won’t ask again

this morning
I braided my hair
slowly, by the window,
making sense of what keeps loosening

outside
the street keeps breaking
into smaller streets

a window coughs its glass
somewhere a door learns
it can be dust

I rinse my face
with water that has no patience,
cold enough to make me honest

the kettle trembles
on a little blue flame
a miniature sun rehearsing

I listen to a piano waltz
soft as a hand
trying not to wake the dead

I tell myself
if I can make heat
I can make a minute

if I can make a minute
I can make a day
out in the streets without vanishing

I keep wanting to gather the world up
the way you gather spilled grain,
one frantic handful at a time
until your palms lose grip

but the truth arrives
like a bowl set down between us
asking only for the next mouthful

There’s no one else to save tonight.

Not the city
not the men with rifles
not the men with roses

Tonight I can only reach
what is inside my arms

my throat
my pulse
my hands learning steadiness

I drink water
I eat a few bites
I swallow my fear in pieces

and if there is a universe in me
let it be stubborn,
let it fight to live for even just a day

so that when the street stops scattering
like grain from a torn sack,
when the air no longer tastes of gunpowder,
I can walk out
carrying a small measure of grain in my palms,
without spilling it