Coffee Shop Blues

I remember the soft cookie dough between my fingers:

Knead, knead, eat some, then

Twist each separated part,

I twist into what we now call coffee shop blues.

A melody plays in my head

Though my hands are freezing,

I am kept warm by my mother’s blessings.

Even when I am sleeping, I am awake to the patterns that form nets and cages.

I spill out my pain but repeat in my mind words of a poet.

It’s a prayer now and I use it when I am tangled in my imbalances.

I cry into my sisters’ arms and despite these morning reflections,

Some seem to know me better than I know myself.

In my hypersensitive state of mind,

I read stories of the heartbroken.

I see myself. I recognize it’s not me.

But it could be.