My mac & cheese has plasticized

overnight; the fluorescent light’s

too bright as I set the noisy coffee pot.

I’m sipping bitter blackness by the window after showering,

my hair become familiar-clean and soft

as sunflower petals in the yard.

I have her hair, they say.

These walls are heavy; half-light hits them

so they flame in auburn, maybe beige,

the sepia burn of ancient photos and I’m filled

with dazzles of reflections, undervalued

and overstated, the glints of costume jewelry.

We drink coffee though it tires us,

we love our partners and in loving

we forget our work. Mother who loves me,

who shares my hair and made my lunches,

I’m alone and I don’t know

what to do with mornings.