Today I Can't

Today, I can’t.

I can’t get out of bed.

I can’t get these boys to start their schoolwork.

I can’t yank these yoga pants all the way up.

I can’t possibly do another side plank squat climber lateral lunge

I remember I did none of these things ever at all until last month.

I can’t my way through until it’s done.

Today the cursor is a middle finger pulsing in my face

The white space around it the blank stare of a disaffected nemesis.

Today we pray for family members on ventilators.

Too many friends and family

Too many.

Today the death toll continues to rise

I can’t allow myself to feel. The malignancy

of unexpressed terror grief anger

presents as a lump in my throat

a tightening in my chest.

Today we would rather be outside until we go outside.

Today it’s too hot. Already.

Today I scold my children for not working hard enough.

Today I am too distracted to work.

Today I apologize to my children. Again.

Today school work feels like a skeleton and a clown nose:

it’s propping up the flesh of past days

it’s a bad joke.

Today we can’t our way through

the things we must, then stop to snack.

Today we can’t our way through until

The miraculous happens:

we focus, create, or, even better

we stand up in our grief

confess and crumple and

tend to ourselves and each other.

“I can’t”

is all the prayer I have

today.