Each morning I rise

Knowing what day it is…

Most important, not the name of the day

But the order of food I eat, on this day

.

Today is Monday

Which means it is almond butter oatmeal day

This requires one tablespoon

One half teaspoon

One quarter teaspoon

A third cup measuring utensil

And then of course, the food

As if some mad scientist

I carefully measure the ingredients

And consume the final product, resting easy

My calculations will most likely avoid

Explosions

And poisonings

Of the past

.

I move on to the next meal, the next snack

On this day, Monday

Carefully plotted so as not to face the terror

The overwhelm of choices, confusion

The strange undertow of death

And the unexplainable

The illogical

Avoidance of The Fullness

.

The clinical voices sealed in my tissues

So many years ago

You can never trust your hunger

Your body will trick you

This meal plan will keep you healthy

All of the voices, once meant to save me

Only keep me departed

From this wise flesh of mine

.

And yet, I’ve gotten a bit wild in my older years

And have different plans for different days

((I was dying of boredom, like a cat staring into the same existential kibble))

And when impossible to control the experiment

I hold my breath, swallow and smile

Hoping the concoction that enters will not poison me

And leave me writhing in pain for hours to come

Typically, I choose less in these situations

Just to make sure

That line of Fullness does not get crossed

Just like the voices predicted

.

But, there’s freedom there

Far from before

When the silver alchemist’s tools

Couldn’t be pried from white knuckled clutched grip

.

Lately, as I head into holding

As I contemplate helping

I think about how this still stays with me

And why it begs, staring

I think about how I also wake up

Knowing this day, Monday

Will consist of a variety of life tasks, sequential

Only tasks Monday is allowed to hold

I think how I measure and plan

The amount of life I can consume

Careful not to take too much in

Plotting for just the right amount

To prevent boredom or death

.

I think about also

How presently, when things go array

My reaction is so much more vast

How the measurements and plotting

No longer seem to have the intense binding

They once did long ago

.

How carjackings

And illness

And sexual violation

And suicidal mothers

And burning houses

And lost jobs

And homelessness

And the deep, deep grief

Of the aching disappearance

Again

How none of this has shaken me

From my fight to survive

These wrenches in my alchemy

These foils to my perfect equations

These attempts to prevent

((explosion))

.

I can’t

I can’t

I can’t

And I know this

And yet

There is still some sort of strange comfort, pervading

Upon standing in front of the counter

The weight of the utensil in my hand

Precisely smoothing the creamy nut deliciousness flat

On this Monday

Where the Universe laughs at my plans

Where the Universe laughs at the illusion of perfection

Where the Universe laughs at those voices

You can never trust your hunger

Your body will trick you

This meal plan will keep you healthy

And tells me to keep going

To keep pushing

To keep giving

And that the wound is my gold

.

This Monday

Before my altar, my counter, waiting

As the thick porridge bubbles

I think about how what I do with food

Is what I do with life

And how finally

Arms and beak open

That its all

Okay