And Thanked it for Teaching Me

What do we say about life

and all its roses we rolled out of bed

with our morning yawn to smell

all the thorns we ignored for this implied beauty

what do we say about the days the bed is both

our prisoner and our safety and we stay swaddled

in the loneliness we are not eager to leave

what do we say to the

bottomless bottles

plates begging to be free of us

free of being our happy place

and to the sun bending light to find us

between curtains

door cracks

windows that are not all the way closed

is there a way to give thanks

for the imperfections

to draw out the words

from a throat that has only swallowed

tears

grief

laughter

so it doesn’t escape

so we are not contagious?