Photo by Gift Habeshaw from

I bent my knees to the earth,

and asked to be rooted




n .

Beside my mattress is a warm place,

where the carpet fibers have scarred my knees.

But you know because it’s happened to you.

On Sundays you would tighten your palms together,

and mumble through your thumbs,

a cry

that would travel and die at the fingertips.

You’d ask the ceiling for help,

and with eyes shut realize,

that the only source providing light to your situation—

is the lamp on your nightstand.