White Days

By Priscilla Becker

the sun always comes up

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

white days
hold sound down,
smell parsnip and
staple, quilt
aneurysm, quivering
pin heads, shivering
paper ridges—
invitations to
open the skin

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