Good Morning

POETRY by Line Kuzniar BFAW '22

Good morning.


It is bright, and this is all you have to judge by, see by.
He is standing just to your left. You think it is him. ( It is not. )
You have something on your forehead, he says to you, reaching out with the pad of a thumb. He is standing just far enough away that he cannot reach you. But he maps out the mark just in front of your forehead.



It has all been yellow and green:
Out of a seeping sun, dripping from street lamps, and leaking out of your eyes As if you are watching everything unfold from within a tank of water and algae As if you are a swamp thing, you are used to the murk, the sun beams
fragmented and dancing through water and so your eyes filter out the light and colors to make you feel you are home.


Affect and cause and effect and


You do.
And you sink. But slowly, controlled.
A room opens up before you, filled with water too and cloaked in billowing light. Really it is a well-kept cavern,
but the ceiling presses down, and while you can’t die,
you can drown.
Your lungs do not yet sting, but they could and you push yourself up, past black ballet slipper feet, kicking with no bodily connection.
You surface.


Remember that you have trouble holding yourself down now, that your feet have not touched the ground in days, and that you must grip with your toes and fingers and brace yourself in order to remain here.


We keep missing one another, mouths misaligned and caught off guard.
We dance about the living room, not touching, but leaping and mirroring. It is less of a dance
And more of a chess-like chase
And when we tumble to the ground, I let you pin me.
But mouths don’t work well here and we cannot
do what you wish.

A chicken scratch, perhaps, you say aloud, thinking of the bird that tried and failed to land atop my head. All the other birds bustled about your feet, pecking at your bare toes.


Who have you been seeing ? How often ? & What might it mean ? VIII.

Every other night, you have been meeting extinct and invisible animals. They swear you to secrecy and twirl you around your living room floor, after carefully moving the furniture aside.

A knock on the door.
A who is it?
A toothy smile.
A not to worry.
A waltz. Yes
A foxtrot. Yes
A freeform careen more than anything. Yes
A kiss on the cheek goodnight. Kiss from. Lick for.
A lot of sweeping up of invisible hairs.

Peering out.
Seeing no one
Rough voice, underused, it warms like butter melts.
Oh dear
Might I have a dance?  
Kiss from. Lick for.  
There is always an aftermath

You have never moved so freely, so excitedly and no dancing partner will ever live up to them, even when you start telling first dates that you could not fall in love with someone who would not twirl you.


Feet hit the ground with a slap.
Jump off the window ledge.
You hear the impact before you actually hit, before you feel it.

A smack to the head, the center of
the forehead that throws the world
into perspective with a long red line,
lit in blues and yellows.


There used to be snakes
often and everywhere.
They made walking difficult,
stepping quickly and carefully through the writhing carpet that crowd the sidewalks like worms coming out with the rain.

And then there were none
but still we listened for rattling in the tall grass.

Now they are back,
green vipers and rattlers,
that your sister warns you of seconds before the serpent strikes at the crown of your head.
Its fangs, flowing with venom, sink into your skullcap And you know you should feel bad,
but don’t.


Lock, unlock, and lock the door.
Lock, unlock, and lock the door.
You are caught, standing at the back door. Peering out. Unlocking and locking and unlocking the door.