By Sam Yau
Before morning peeks around the curtain’s edge,
before the memory of last night’s dreams starts to fade,
before I am hijacked by mental chatter,
in the twilight between asleep and awake,
I lie still.
Find my breath.
Sense my rhythm.
Tune in to what I’m feeling
in my body,
If the feeling has a color, I
let it seep across my entire field of vision,
soak every cell of mine in its hue.
Sometimes it is a golden lifting-up.
Other times, it is a gray heaviness in my chest,
if I stay long enough with it,
I reach its opposite.
If the feeling has a taste, I
swish it around in my mouth,
savor it with my electrified taste buds.
Some mornings are easier than others.
But I don’t try to cover it.
I leave no trace of my hangover—
I devour it,
lick my palate clean,
start fresh for a new day.
Painting by Olena Zavakevych