top of page

A quarterly international literary journal

Morning




/ Poetry /

I take my days black now,

no cream, as we used to

take our nights

neat, no ice.

Unshaken. Sight unseen.

And sometimes we would sing,

not sadly,

an old sad song:

what time we have,

we won’t have long.

It was always there,

the pillow we woke to,

turning, keeping the cool side

against our faces,

each the other’s better half,

for whom the mourning

came too soon.

bottom of page