wide awake but eyes shut tight
sheets smelling like liquorice root,
"rabbit, rabbit".
First words out of her mouth.
Her mother wakes up early, by an hour and a half.
sneaks outside, has a smoke, unfurls her mind.
Ever since she was twenty years old she hated morning encounters.
she breathes heavy, laborious, large intake of air- pushed out of bed
to standing.
each morning stooping, back curving like a sicle.
each day weighing a little more.
her grandmother wakes up, never thinking
about anything but whether the cat shat in the garden.
occupations
and priorities- are everyone's prerogative.
each of them mine,
these morning routines.
For today
tomorrow
and everyday after that.
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