Thorns for Breakfast

Thorns for Breakfast

I slice the morning thin—

toast, two corners of sky,

news folded small enough to swallow.

The kettle learns its whistle,

a hawk calling the day to order.

I answer with a small spoon’s thunder.

On the counter, a bowl of berries

wears a crown of thorns—

leftover stems, stubborn as yesterday.

I pick carefully.

A thumb finds a prick.

bright punctuation on the margin of skin.

Some pains arrive punctually as mail,

stamped and dated:

regret, 07:42; fear, 08:03.

I butter the toast to the edges,

a kindness I can afford.

The knife reflects my mouth trying on brave.

Outside, a rosebush leans

against the window like a rumor—

Bloom's loud, reasons sharper.

I used to swallow everything soft,

let the morning pass as sugar.

Now I chew the bristle of truth.

What cuts also teach:

The boundary is just a petal

that learned to armor.

I save one thorn on the plate

to remember the lesson—

the way small defenses gleam

When rinsed by the sun.

I eat slowly, tasting the day’s wild—

sweet where it’s ripe,

honest where it bites.

By the last crumb I know:

This mouth, this heart, can hold both.

I wash the dish,

pin the hurt to the drain with water,

and leave the window open

for the hawk, the rumor, the weather—

whatever arrives with claws,

whatever leaves me singing.