wednesday morning

wake up
on a wednesday morning and put on
some rough shoes, because this is the day
you’re going. don’t wait for the weekend,
don’t wait for next week; pick up in the middle and go
because only an abrupt break is going to hurt enough
to make you feel how good it’s going to be
when you get where you’re going.

wake up.
don’t say goodbye. all your family, found or born,
wants you to be happy their way
right here, so you pay attention
to the way your boots look by the bedside in the morning,
because they are the best brothers you’ll ever have
and they will carry you where you need to go.

wake up,
turn away from the loves of your life,
give up their ghosts. give up your voice
that used to crack at midnight when you called out a name
you couldn’t remember the next day.
pick a new voice from the rack.
slip it on like a clog you can kick off at will. try on any pair
that suits you, and get to walking. get to running. get to flying.

wake up,
burst off from the earth,
and go orbit upon orbit around the sun.
then, turn on your heel and come back down.
founder or triumph, slink or strut.
no one’s going to believe you did it for love
and not fame or spite,
so you might as well do it anyway.
once you’re all in hell,
there will be time enough then
to hear them mumble about you.