Matthew DeMarco

Wake

I wake and the world is slicker.
Two slim powerlines in the backyard
curve like subtle bows toward
their tower, sharp black strings,
glazed in the morning and stark
against the sky’s bold and
unencumbered bright white
eye. Whether I know it
or not, a small brown rabbit
lolls on the dry earth beside
our room. I wake and the day
is a cabbage. I wake, and the day
is waiting in the refrigerator,
an array of crisp plants
soon to be washed, shaved,
trimmed, and simmered lovingly
for hours in the slick broth
of its own wet day. I pour
my bare body into cloth,
arrange the deep old fabrics
of my personhood and step
into the soft beige cushion
that cradles the heel and ball
of my existence. The ground,
likewise, welcomes me. I wake,
and during this prismatic day,
I stoop, strain, observe:
an accumulation of evidence
I have not yet died.