I will stick Post-its
to the wall behind the sink.
I will spatter them with soap
suds and water, let the ink
blend into a paper mâché mass
of every word that picked me up
off the floor. I will leave dishes
in the sink. I will not wash them
before I load the dishwasher.
I will take the crosses and bible
verses off my wall once the party
is over and trade them in for messy
watercolors, prints I will find
in the bargain bin at the thrift store.
I will leave the top shelves of my cabinets
bare. I will not buy a stepstool
to reach them.
There will be oat milk in my fridge,
no certifiable cheese drawer,
and apples that taste of the fall.
I will ask you to go to the grocery,
I will let you fill the cupboards
with love, with smashed avocado
and sourdough and nectarines and the cookie
dough I did not put on the list.
I will let you make me tea,
lavender and mint to soothe my aching
mind. I will let you take care of me,
and I will not repeat the mistakes
of my mother. I will come home
after an earthshattering shift without
delay, I will ask if your day was restful.
I will let you go to the grocery store.