What Rises in You
by Max Wallis
for the days you don’t
What rises in you,
my body?
Outside the window,
May’s sun lifts again.
But you do not.
Breath returns
only when it breaks:
a gasp in jailed lungs,
a throat packed with quiet.
The clatter of builders,
the hollow tick
of a world that doesn’t wait.
Everything has fallen, again.
But less than yesterday.
So stay. Name this hour.
Slack light, before consequence.
But this time: there are none.
The sky still performs
its silent rites
rising, falling,
rising as if it could go on
without you.
And it will.
Some mornings, the body doesn’t move. But the sun still does.
Your task:
Write a poem or paragraph that begins with a question to your body. Use the language of sunrise, not as hope, but as repetition, as ritual, as something that happens whether you rise or not.
Let the piece explore contradiction:
* What is still inside you when everything outside is in motion?
* What does the body forget until it’s reminded?
* What if nothing rises — and that’s still enough?
Start with:
“What rises in you, my body?”or“Outside, the light returns. But I…”
And see what follows. No pressure to arrive anywhere.The poem is in the trying.
