Morning After Methotrexate
Six in the morning though my alarm was set for seven,
I am (contrary to all appearances) awake.
Clever crows taunt from amid the firs,
Little birds burble and squeak from under the cherry tree.
My mouth tastes of old coffee grounds,
My joints and muscles feel salted with broken glass,
So I mumble-mutter my way to a hot bath liberally scented,
With frankincense, sage and rose.
My husband snores, undisturbed, when I return,
But my cat, soft as a cherry-petal herself, greets me,
Kneads at my fingers and needs at my love,
Till most of the broken glass lies melting in the sun.
It's only the morning after,
Fresh coffee will chase the old taste away,
There's still a cherry-blossom sky outside my window,
And I am still, after it all, myself.