Ode to the Couch
Poem
You.
Yes, you, forcing yourself on the world,
come lie on this false bottom that breaks the fall.
Lean back until you’re flat, ribcage rising slightly,
lungs swelling between the shock and caress of a breath.
Sometimes it can’t be any other way.
Come sweat through the clothes and oaths,
and every broken promise.
This sabbatical, plunging into cushions and thoughts,
this lateness, this aftermath,
learning to use your skin as a weighted blanket.
Mouth, shoulder, crutch.
The sky growing colors more tender than ever.
Too much matter, too much identity.
Come sit in the empty of being,
in its hills of mild peace and weather.
Indulge in the interior,
in the suspended luxury of this daring,
irresponsible thing.
Nothing at all is that serene.
“And if you missed a day, there was always the next, and if you missed a year, it didn’t matter, the hills weren’t going anywhere, the thyme and the rosemary kept coming back, the sun kept rising, the bushes kept bearing fruit.” — Louise Glück
