Inspired by John-Francis Quiñonez
I have not woken this early
since I was a child
when I woke to the vibration of my brother playing his guitar,
though never of his own volition, or my sister choking on a grisly cough, her grisly cough, a sudden standing ovation from a depth inside her stomach. The desperation performed on mother’s television, Diagnosis Murder,
which I only watched in daylight.
Almost anomalous,
succeeding through footsteps of my own. The reflection of what once was–nearly waned, though still pining–an imprint fossil,
my own.
Dark as evening,
perhaps I’ve never been awake so tardy– only been tumbling and
asleep. As though in turbulence, my mind remains dormant though head emerges alive, and
I wonder what would happen if I was awake at this hour ten years ago? I’d ask my mother
to get me a cup of water, yet
not take a sip
(because it lacked glaciers).
I get myself a cup of water,
stale,
Pseudofossil.
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