I woke to the tender bite

                                of the fifth week of spring and mint leaves
rolled between thumb and forefinger

                                to the spoon left on the bench, its communication
with the dandelion illicit and derivative

                                to earthworms elongating

                                to tap water discourse, labyrinthine
passages, mineral-encrusted pipes, faucets rimmed in biofilm

                                to frustrations nurtured by blood

                                to an argument of dishes on the counter and the cat
coming in from his night of terrestrial sightings

                                to sun licking the last crumbs of darkness

                                to the injunction: a mirage contains
the splinter grasped by dream

                                to states of extremis the dog of me
can’t help but stalk

                                to the green felt-tip lost in the drawer,
the lip balm left in the pocket, the bar soap’s tacky skin

                                to your morning departure already three hours past

                                to the post man still blocks away

                                to ransacked garbage and raccoon bliss

                                to the water glass housing congregates of air
 
 
 
Eliza Rotterman grew up in Cincinnati, Ohio. Her poetry has appeared in Volta, Quarterly West, Colorado Review and The Los Angeles Review among others. She has received fellowships from the Vermont Studio Center and Squaw Valley Community of Writers. Her first chapbook, Dirt Eaters, was published by Tupelo Press in 2018. Currently she lives in Portland, Oregon, and practices nursing.