instructions for staying put

by Shannon Swearingen Gabriel

after Joy Sullivan

In the evenings, sit on your front porch with a whiskey sour in your hand and witness the sky’s pastels dim from peach to lilac to bruise.

On Sundays, fill the house with the warmth of every baked good you can think of: 

double-chocolate-chip muffins, craggy biscuits flaked with cheddar, lemon pound cake so tart your mouth can’t help but squeeze around every forkful.

Each day, fill your belly with what it craves: the punch of laughter, the entire bowl of watermelon. Every night, stroke your daughter’s soft hair.

Let the quicksand of her eyes root you here till you rebloom — barrel cactus or blazing tulip.

In the long winters, let your body take up the entire narrow beam of sunlight. Lie still on the made bed and absorb the dark.

Always insist on a tangle of stars. Bury your doubts here so that you always have their graves

to return to. Remember — you can make wherever is under your feet your home.

Remember — just a mile west are the greenest fields, your emergency exit.

You can make your own peace.

Shannon Swearingen Gabriel is a professional copy editor by day, a mother around the clock, and a scribbler of poems whenever possible. Originally from Nashville, she now lives in the Chicago suburbs, where she enjoys frequenting great restaurants, cute coffee shops, and vinyl record stores.