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  • Sarah Donkin

Sundays

I am

never good enough on Sundays,

from mornings stretching out like my arms reaching over my head to shake off sleep

to evenings wishing the sun would go down just a little slower

instead of moving steadily like a rollercoaster creaking up the tracks to a peak.

As I sit here, poised at the top of one day,

staring at the week I am about to plummet into,

I can't help but wonder

when the ride will drop me off at

the next stop, and I can't imagine

that I won't be too tired to throw my arms over my head

tomorrow morning


but

when I think about

the way the wind will blow in my face

and the pages turning over in my stomach

the descent sounds less like falling,

and more like jumping

forward, to a day where I will throw my arms

out to lift the baggage that sits on either side of me

and carry it through the week.


My hands flex and curl

reaching for strings and ink

to sketch out the plunge ahead

as the stars whisper that

even they will dive down with the curve of the earth. On Monday

I will be enough.


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