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By Alex Chan

Monday Blues

By Elise Nelson

I awake
with primordial stiffness in my neck.
Roll out
from under sheets and blankets,
released from
my humid incubator into the chill of night’s last air.
 
Toes kiss carpet with gratitude,
shoulders ache with liberation,
hamstrings stretch tight against sleep’s spell.
 
Compaction.
At 11am I sense it:
wafts of periwinkle
chased by streaks of ice
incinerated in cindered salt explosions.
 
Dios mío.
All the essence I ever possessed,
squeezed out in 10 seconds flat.

It starts like morning light,
and manifests,
manifests like western mist,
manifests like cold sweats,
 
watches me
like the old woman perching in the tree,
whom I have seen
waiting, waiting, waiting.
 
By sunrise I am gasping gasping gasping
like a lobster in Cape Cod.
Some red herring, Blue Monday.
Leave me be while I
meet sky with mooneye.
 


 

l.