This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
—Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks
Shame brings you coffee
to wake you. She has laced
it with cinnamon and chicory.
She sits on the edge of your bed,
offers you the warm cup.
This is not what you expected.
For two years, you’ve kept
the door locked
so she couldn’t come in.
Perhaps you thought
she would smell
like rancid sardines.
Perhaps you imagined
she would grasp you
with hideous, deformed
claws and not let you go
or sit on you until you
deflated. Instead, she loves you.
She tells you so. She smiles
at you with such sincerity
that there is no way
to not meet her eyes.
She does not bring up
anything you have or have not done.
You do that yourself.
Good Morning, she says.
You choose to believe her.
To your surprise, almost
as if you are watching yourself
and in yourself at the same time,
you hug this unlikely friend.
And then—is it because you
leaned toward her instead
of hiding under the covers again—
she leaves. Just like that.
You almost want her back.
The cup, though bitter,
is easier to drink than
you thought
it would be.
You drink it until
there is nothing left.
God, you feel awake.
As if you could walk
to Wyoming from here.
As if you could rip off
the door lock with your bare hands.
As if you could meet anyone,
even yourself.