The Kitchen Table is Antarctica

And I am trapped among the ice
Floes, flapping my useless wings.
Radical guru drops his beats
Between my heart’s thumps.
My sons listen to music
With open lids, organs pumping
Strains into the icy air.
The island is white, the books
Stepping stones that lead
To terra firma. Water is my element
Of choice, but here it’s too cold.
The panic of flying toward land.
Necessary choice in lieu of drowning.

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Day 2, Five-minute, mindful writing, small stones, Writing Our Way Home.

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