My Goodnight

My memory – only a glimpse I fear of the fresh cut flowers and porcelain-pink china resting upon a once starched-white, linen tablecloth.

My wine glasses – no longer full (wine glasses are less convenient) now.
Sitting splintered, rims chipped in the top shelf of my unpainted kitchen cabinet
where roaches dance inside of them.

My phone has not sung to me in days, months (oh who am I kidding) or years.
At times, I will collect it off its cradle just to see if she still has life.
The empty droning noise convinces me of that.

My papers – some stained and also ripped, but placed neatly in piles – filling all corners and horizontal place where dust kisses and sometimes suffocates.


My breath – smelling of too many cigarettes, room temperature coffee and 49 years of inhaling the stale air of my stale apartment.

My breast – no longer strangers to each other but now greet each other under a worn and yellowed t-shirt purchased at the market for a buck.

My bed - (yes my bed) was once a place to entertain foreign boys with sparse golden pubic hair, long fingers and short attention spans.

My body – prepares itself to finally sleep. Washing my face hard as if to say good-riddance and not just good night. I smile, one final smile, I drift.

My life – tasted sweetness often but not nearly enough. Defeated and exhausted time swallowed me up and regurgitated the rest.

Ada 11/2007