I fold hospital corners in my sheets
the way my grandmother showed me.
My fingers are flushed and clumsy
with sleep. By the time I am done
smoothing the sun-faded fabric,
it has cooled below the open window
of my bedroom. I pull my pajamas off
and leave them clumped at the foot
of my bed. Yesterday’s perfume
hums in the sweatshirt I drag from
the floor. This is how I make myself
move towards day—orange juice
and two white pills. Three eggs
in a stainless pan. Lemon-scented
dish soap to fill the kitchen with yellow.
It is Sunday, which means I can
make everything new—use a washcloth
to clear last week’s dust from my desk.
Later, I will clean my windows, call in
the city’s light. It is not an obligation
to this body. It is not fear of this body’s
failure that drives the work. I think it’s
love. I’m trying really hard to make it love.
Poem Ending with a Line by Richard Siken
Max Gillette is working towards an MFA in creative writing at Ohio State University, where they were awarded a Dean’s Graduate Enrichment Fellowship. Max’s poetry has appeared in HAD, Sage Cigarettes, Punk Monk Magazine, Cutbow Quarterly, Defunkt Magazine, and other journals.