Conversations with my Ceiling
In the biblical Egyptian pitch-black of my bedroom
I take 40mg of melatonin and proceed to talk to the ceiling with hand gestures, for considerable time
The only evidence remains my leaden morning limbs,
(Vestige measured in a remembrance of the flesh)
the classic somatic cipher of the forgotten ‘night before’
arms that don’t bend right, bone-deep weariness signifying some sort of unbeknownst movement, silent attempts
The only evidence remains Friction with the atmosphere,
a sort of ‘woosh’ of the air slap
And I talk and talk to God, who hears my ‘wooshes’ like tackles and throws in a match,
judge among spectators
As he weighs down on my limbs and guides the winds every which way
So that friction is surrounding instead of guiding
Fervently yet stumbling, I ramble corporeally about having no wants
But the ability to desire
Red eyes, forcefully widened, held open by speculums
Last night I was sleep’s huntress
Chasing after my sustenance, threateningly following for sweet relief
Last day, sputtering engine out of fuel
Tonight I am sleep’s prey
My body, my enemy, bent on survival
pumping me full of adrenaline against my consent
The prey awaits in rest,
unless Enlightened
Copyright © Dana Ginger | Year Posted 2026
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