earth, guadalupe

Day after day,
the world pours in
whether we invite it
to our party or not.

Earth, the noisy guest
who keeps blabbering on
at the dinner table, talking of
Guadalupe and how they
did amazing in the World
Cup. You don't watch
sports, or give a fuck
about Guadalupe, but
you can't exactly tell
them to shut up,
either. It goes on.

When you fight, the
Earth pulls in, clinging to
your skin like a needy lover.
"The sun is calling you," A soft
whisper, the tickling of hair. "Wake
up. Go to work. Recycle. Wash the
dishes. You've got to get up." A rustle
of the curtains, a hot breath. "You've
got to get up." You
can never win
the arguments.

You used to
plan out how to
divorce the planet,
and get away without
having to share custody
of the dogs. You had the
papers ready, and signed
your side, but at the last
moment, you decided to
give life a chance to
explain its lies.

It felt heavy
at first, but now
the heat and heft of it
seems reassuring. The sun
shines in, and summer is forcing
its way into your bed, your head,
and while the air conditioning is broken,
you're ready. Accepting.

The world--inconvenient,
demanding, pushy, but worth it.
A lover's lips. The wiggle in your toes.
The way a miniature bonsai tree grows.
These things let you know:
it'll be okay. Maybe not
today, but eventually.