Morning Routine

p
o
e
m
s

Some days I get up to run but then
just sit in spandex and write poems.
Is the fog lifting or the trees rising? Who cares.
Nature transfers blood into the air. We are
its lung cancer. Its trans fat. Its addiction.
Some days I get up to write but instead, clean
the horrible beans from the night before,
beer cans on the coffee table. At the window
the insects are bigger and scarier
than the month before.
They are giving their last Hurrah.
I creep around like Nancy Drew
with my hunch and no real proof.
All things feel preordained, repeated.
My body is numb. Without anticipation.
I sit in the lobby of someone else’s potential,
thinking it is my own. I go about my day
convinced I am immortal.

Bianca Stone is a poet and visual artist. Her most recent book is The Mobius Strip Club of Grief (Tin House, 2018).

You Might Also Enjoy

The Champions

Myronn Hardy

“The black players of France are also black players for the entire black world.”
—Grégory Pierrot Too much rain. . .

poems

Diaspora Sonnet 49

Oliver de la Paz

He should have stayed home and didn’t move beyond
seeing himself in the windows of the storefronts, Vegas, Rodeo Drive,. . .

poems

Further Reading

Heads Up: We recently updated our privacy policy to clarify how and why we collect personal data. By using our site, you acknowledge that you have read and understand this policy.