White Days
By Priscilla Becker
the sun always comes up
(indisputable,
unarguable)
yet some
days the white
suffocate lowers
like snowy exhaust
designed to trick you
into death
these are the days
I like best
the days that justify
solitary confinement,
the laconic breath
of warm tea drifting to meet
earth’s skullcap
when I was young
you said you were my sun
the walls sequestered
eternal noon, enclosed
forever (standing up)
white days
wall thick invisible
companionship
white days
hold sound down,
smell parsnip and
staple, quilt
aneurysm, quivering
pin heads, shivering
paper ridges—
invitations to
open the skin