"Everyone is a reader, some just haven't found their favorite book yet."

Cold Mornings

Rachel LeWitt

 

Just beneath my fake

fur-lined slippers, that I sometimes call skippers,

there are wool socks

They have treated me wonderfully.

I am indebted to them

even in the summer,

even when I have forgotten about them 

and painted my toenails red.

Just beneath my socks

are my feet, 

freshly smoothed

by some volcanic rock from

some country 

my country invaded

during a war no one talks about.

I am no expert of history

or anatomy or silence--

I can't name the bones of my body

or the muscles that pull 

me out of bed on cold mornings.

I wish I knew better,

not a scientist's Latin phrase

wrapping the ivory of my toes

or my bra size, not my IQ or how

my stomach turns into something

unhappy and weak

whenever I've eaten too much

or seen something 

I can't use for months.

I wish I knew myself

as an arm you'd run your

fingers across on a Sunday morning

as you write something 

beautiful above your French pillows

that say "de rien, de rien"

which means you're welcome,

you're welcome, but also

of nothing, nothing, nothing