A Very Good Morning

[matsunosuperfan]

A Very Good Morning 

My spine curls up inside my body 
like a fiddlehead. It is too early to be up and so I am
of course, already and as light milks through the blinds
again I curse myself for being 
how I am. I should have closed my leaden eyes 
before it was too late, and now in two short hours 
I will have to rise, wash the stink off hair and skin, 
button down, make ready. Sink metal into pedal. 
Arrange my second face. The work will be there 
waiting, open-mouthed, in its generic bulldog way and I 
will place my round head squarely
in its jaws. People I don't know will smile and speak to me
as if we were great friends, they will ask me how I'm doing
and I'll answer with a question. An outpouring of
Guatemalan coffee. It's enough to make a man let go the rope, 
bolt himself indoors and read the first six volumes
of his father's old Brittanica, the one with ancient names 
etched on the spine like Tirane-Zwygny, purchased
at substantial cost to fill a brown boy’s red balloon with facts 
and fantasies. This I will not do. Someone needs me 
to get up and make the tiller sing. She nestles into hours
soundless as a stone inside a peach, arms of hair spread out
across the pillow like an octopus and she is fast asleep
and dreaming, dreaming of deep water, the kind so full of life 
you couldn't drink it if you tried.

[busker]

A Very Good Morning 

My spine curls up inside my body 
like a fiddlehead. It is too early to be up and so I am
of course, already and as light milks through the blinds
again I curse myself for being 
how I am. I should have closed my leaden eyes 
before it was too late, and now in two short hours 
I will have to rise, wash the stink off hair and skin, 
button down, make ready. Sink metal into pedal. 
Arrange my second face. The work will be there 
waiting, open-mouthed, in its generic bulldog way and I 
will place my round head squarely
in its jaws. People I don't know will smile and speak to me
as if we were great friends, they will ask me how I'm doing
and I'll answer with a question. An outpouring of
Guatemalan coffee. It's enough to make a man let go the rope, 
bolt himself indoors and read the first six volumes
of his father's old Brittanica, the one with ancient names 
etched on the spine like Tirane-Zwygny, purchased
at substantial cost to fill a brown boy’s red balloon with facts 
and fantasies. This I will not do. Someone needs me 
to get up and make the tiller sing. She nestles into hours
soundless as a stone inside a peach, arms of hair spread out
across the pillow like an octopus and she is fast asleep
and dreaming, dreaming of deep water, the kind so full of life 
you couldn't drink it if you tried.

The lines in bold above are exquisite 
In green - surely it’s the pedal that sinks into the metal of the car body? 
Couldn’t follow making the tiller sing.

The “she nestles” - could be referring to the narrator’s partner, or indeed, the narrator herself, told in the third person. I like how both options  are open, but either way I wonder if it’s not an improvement to move that to a new strophe 

Fantastic poem

[matsunosuperfan]

A Very Good Morning 

My spine curls up inside my body 
like a fiddlehead. It is too early to be up and so I am
of course, already and as light milks through the blinds
again I curse myself for being 
how I am. I should have closed my leaden eyes 
before it was too late, and now in two short hours 
I will have to rise, wash the stink off hair and skin, 
button down, make ready. Sink metal into pedal. 
Arrange my second face. The work will be there 
waiting, open-mouthed, in its generic bulldog way and I 
will place my round head squarely
in its jaws. People I don't know will smile and speak to me
as if we were great friends, they will ask me how I'm doing
and I'll answer with a question. An outpouring of
Guatemalan coffee. It's enough to make a man let go the rope, 
bolt himself indoors and read the first six volumes
of his father's old Brittanica, the one with ancient names 
etched on the spine like Tirane-Zwygny, purchased
at substantial cost to fill a brown boy’s red balloon with facts 
and fantasies. This I will not do. Someone needs me 
to get up and make the tiller sing. She nestles into hours
soundless as a stone inside a peach, arms of hair spread out
across the pillow like an octopus and she is fast asleep
and dreaming, dreaming of deep water, the kind so full of life 
you couldn't drink it if you tried.

The lines in bold above are exquisite 
In green - surely it’s the pedal that sinks into the metal of the car body? 
Couldn’t follow making the tiller sing.

The “she nestles” - could be referring to the narrator’s partner, or indeed, the narrator herself, told in the third person. I like how both options  are open, but either way I wonder if it’s not an improvement to move that to a new strophe 

Fantastic poem

Many thanks Busker, I appreciate the read and the kind words. May have overcooked the figuration about metal/pedal; seems gratuitous in hindsight. Good catch. "Tiller" also perhaps an unwelcome anachronism. Great notes <3