Breathe. For yourself. For each other.
Good morning. I missed your “good”
because a plane, because a truck, because
a gun, because a cop, because a government,
because a people suffering, because too many
people suffering, because war, because famine,
because some mornings it is so hard
to rise, to wake, to be a self.
There is a pause here. There is a deliberate
cessation. I want a cessation to the noise
in my head, to the ache in the collective
heart of this world. When I was young
this seemed possible. When I was young
how hope seemed to spring eternal.
I want to write about butterflies, about
the cracked edges of tree bark pressing
like a holy mother into palms. I want to write
about the joy of children’s cries, about birth,
about the arch of your smile, how I could
lose myself in the corners of your
sweet and grinning mouth. This you is
you reading this. I want for your joy,
want to lose myself in you. I want your
mornings “good,” your evenings “good,”
all the late-nights and sunrises and afternoons
and moments pressed against the ticking
glass of your life “good.”
Breathe. For yourself. For each other. Let
us breathe in when others cannot. When we
can do nothing else. Let us stretch ourselves
open to embrace our friends, to extend
our bodies open to anyone willing to meet us,
or even to meet those we think may not. Let us
hold each other for this moment. For this
blink of human existence.
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Mason Bolton is a queer, trans writer and poet. He currently lives in the Boston-metro area with his fiancé, Doug. His work has been published in Epiphany Magazine, Kelsey Review, The Black Napkin, and is forthcoming in the Lambda Literary Poetry Spotlight.
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