morning routine [instructions for waking]

a poem by Diana Dalton, one of three winners selected for Florilegia's October edition

first, let the light in. someone wise said
not to trust ideas born indoors, bound and self-holy.

crack yourself open like bird bones or double-wall cardboard
upon waking. it’s best to shake dreams off like a wet hound.

the catch about things with a life of their own is
 if hoarded too long, they develop mold,
which turns to obsession, and in its final form
the brain-eater amoeba,
the suffocator of new little fresh baby ideas
which, to be clear, are nothing resembling the
unholy, rushed pair called innovation and ambition.
the only obligation of new little fresh baby ideas
is to keep the sun rising in the morning,
the moon at night,
all the water in the world circulating,
and hope alive, somehow.

eat breakfast in the middle of the road,
because routine is the killer of a great story.
lasso any loose teeth to a passing hubcap
to get in the practice of wrenching away your past.

dress for the day in linen and armour;
take every opportunity to be soft in this hard world,
which will wound your softness regardless.
you may dabble as you’re called to
between tenderness and depravity.

be an excellent guest in this world,
and it still will rush to show you the door.
the right chances may never present themselves.
you may never find the perfect souvenir.

but you may wake anew each day,
and you may know that you are waking.

✶

Diana Dalton (she/her) is a filmmaker, writer, and multidisciplinary artist based in Tennessee. Her poetic work has been featured in You’re Not Seeing Things, The Pigeon Parade, The Oakland Arts Review, and more. Her films and written works often find themselves concerned with memory spaces, the ephemeral, and the mundane.