Every morning,
she pulls herself out
of the rabbit hole,
climbs down her bed,
and gently lands on her feet.
The remains of the previous night
are scattered alibi on the floor —
worn out stationery,
money gone out of circulation,
handwritten telephone diaries,
the wreckage of old friends.

Who made this mess?
Where are the kids?
Is she a mother?
Isn’t she a mother?
Why isn’t she a mother?

Each night her dreams crawl out
of her insides and fall onto the floor.
Some days the morning floor
is the wet sea.
Some days it is remains of wooden bridges
and decayed photographs.
On other days the floor is
a constellation of stars
fallen from the scars on her skin.
But then there are some glorious days,
when there are flowers
wild, vivid,
spilt out soft petals,
instead of blood.

This morning, as her feet touch the ground,
she expects to tread on herself
but finds nothing.
The floor is clean.

The wood shines.
She walks to the living room
where she finds a blue crystal bowl
lying on the floor
bathed in the morning sunlight
with clear water

She picks the bowl carefully
places it on the window sill
and pours herself out.

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