wishing she were

she wakes
lifts her head
lies back down
turns over
arm on the empty bedside
she looks at that space
runs hand up and down pillow
as if it were his face, back, front
she lies back down

the sun won't watch her with shyness anymore
blinds her
heats her
sweats her from covers
feet on floor, a little cool on wood, a little sore
she's been walking again
she still wanders
not like she's been running or hiking or dancing hard
just walking
she breathes in and out in deep ways,
trying to remove the added weight at sternum's center
coax it away with air

face at her feet
she changes focus, up to the wall
teal sea green
wishing it were ocean
wishing she were shark
something large, monstrous, prehistoric
she opens her mouth wide as though her teeth
were too jagged/triangle/daunting
to close down her jaw
the thought of her face full of splintered teeth
smiles her
brings lips together

after 9
and she's a shark in
sweat pants, tee shirt, tattered, stained
she doesn't look back to his side of the bed
listens to morning summer
breeze and traffic
and with help
from her hands on the mattress
with an oomph she rises
thinking how old lady she sounds
shuffling
to the kitchen
the kettle
filling

looking out window
garden out the backyard forever
the maples, grass, sky
wishing she were up there
swinging from branches
not running into walls
fall down a rabbit hole inside out

looking down
and she's a vulture
hungry
that spells disaster
but all she is here is slow
grounded
stagnant fingers aching heart
ink over hands
green beans and kale for breakfast

wishing she were shark. Photo by Francesco Califano on Unsplash.