Three pale yellow chunks of ginger steep in boiled water
at the bottom of a mug, the white ceramic walls stained brown.
I squeeze half a lemon, adding drops of acid to the morning’s purifying ritual,
the first thing I put in my body.
I read that Lance Armstrong might come clean about doping.
Two ice cubes make my drink palatable.
I sip the tonic as I climb the stairs, waiting to be stripped inside from head to toe.
My mouth puckers as I glance at the bedroom dresser covered in a layer of dust
so thick I could write my name in it.