At five in the morning,
the threads of me
are tentacles,
choosing quickly
what to pull in,
what to leave alone
for now.

The fringe catches
on the handle of
the storm door
and trips me
up the steps to the office.

If I hit the light just right,
my face will hide
the canals in my gut
and the tangle
of the lines below.

Even the thinnest
fishing line
can pull an

At five o’clock,
I am split open
the unfinished things
that will wait for tomorrow
and the other parts of me,
waiting at home.

~ Megan M. Codera

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