When you're dead

I.
I will smile on my pillow in the morning
because in winter it's still dark this early
& I don't have to share it with anyone.

II.
I broke a cup, one of the green set,
the green I might see in a pool.

III.
I've given up looking at anything. My eyes
are voluntarily blind, milked over, staring at empty space
all day. I've learned only the bedroom
and bathroom by touch and even the light switch
is heavy.

IV.
I went to the counter to pay and I had nothing
not even my wallet, just bread crumbs in my purse
left over from a stash of pumpkin bread. The cinnamon
stung my eyes.

V.
You need to break free—this binary view of images
is suffocating. I stare at the line tying the raft to shore
and am too frightened to untie the knot—so the boat rocks
so do I.

VI.
It was ten years ago but I'm not thinking. It is as if
I've found time travel with this rage—like I can feel
all the pain that was, that is and will be.