Breakfast, 7 am

Breakfast, 7 am

by Val Dering Rojas

There is fancy grapefruit on the table, ignored by the husband, and now the halved maraschino-cherry belly-button is making pink blood. You want to say something that feels like wasabi on the back of a tongue but the morning paper is sopping up milk, is plastered to Formica, is the medium for the photograph of the stranger you feel you know: her not-smiling half-smile, the distance that lingers between upper lip and nose, the new geometry of cheekbones:knife-shaped and ironic. You want to tell her that your own face burns red-hot and salty. That you wear the same expression, wear submission like a razor sharp badge. That you too, cower in the boxwood, lick your own wounds– you want to say this to her, but children are pulling themselves out of their chairs, cereal bowls rattle their empty little sounds; the day is ordinary. The day will use itself up like all of the others, will turn to darkness, will remind you that the most hideous of scars are invisible.

  1. Jeanette Gallagher

    Very wise. Poignant. Thanks for sharing.

  2. Amazing Val. Congratulations on these powerful poems and getting your own contributors page in Referential!

  3. Roberta Hargis

    Just read your poem……well done. Will go read all the others.

    Roberta Hargis

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