The Next Morning, I Put on National Geographic

And Learn

The base of a seaweed plant is called the "holdfast".
That's nice – a kind of anchor to thoughts scattered
by a rum cake bender without the cake, a thousand-
piece puzzle bulldozed with only the lighthouse in the
upper left corner yet to assemble, a slip turned operatic
in its decrescendo. I pop an olive, consolation prize for
the Bloody Mary I really want, macaroni boiling on the
stovetop, to douse – drown? – the fire and restart the
countdown to New Day One. The timing is bad. (Is it
ever good?) It is Carnival, after all, and Bananas Foster
wail a siren's song from somewhere in my artist's brain.
But I hold fast, stir alphabet soup, turn grilled cheese.