porch raspberries

I could not bring the bagels to bible study
as my womanly gravity keeps me bedridden, feeling
existential but knowing it will pass with time
and the correct dose of naproxen sodium.

I ask if anyone out there can bring my breakfast
[complete with smoked salmon, cream cheese, two jams, and a toaster]
for me—bare my carbohydrates into the kingdom of heaven
so I can soak in epsom salts and plead with my uterus to just
shut the fuck up.

A friend [here, unnamed] answers my weak text for help
Yes, and do you need anything at the store? Anything you want?
Thank you and no. I plan to turn myself into soup, listen
to my neighbor’s wind chimes, and imagine you all praying for me
while you eat lox bagels.

Just put everything on your porch—I will not disturb you
and while I usually love company (my name is misery, after all)
I do as I am told (toaster included) and waddle
back to bed, my legs briny and warm, hopeful for the reprieve
that is saying no when I so want to say yes.

There’s a shuffle on the porch, and I ignore my dog barking
when a ding comes through on my phone
I left you a little treat.
A girlish joy pulls at the left corner of my mouth
as I waddle (yet again), in a muslin bathrobe to my front door.

A note, six ounces of raspberries, my favorite kombucha (I never told you)
and other small sundries, left in the place of bagels, lox, and toaster.
Thank you for how you love your community—but you don’t know
I love it because it first loved me.

A friend [yet another, unnamed] bears my leftovers home
her car, full of feral boys, but her belly (hopefully) also full
of cream cheese bagel, and if she was fast in the breakfast line,
smoked salmon.

And all the while, I am held
in the picking up and dropping off
the silent service, and the saying no—with love
and the leaving of raspberries on the front porch

just because you can.