Tory Adkisson
In the morning, say what is the beautiful
thing that is broken? Say we do not sing
one song. The morning comes suddenly,
the light cutting across the door
like a blade, the sun is quick, opaque,
& white, within a cat’s paw.
So say let’s sit awhile in a state of awe,
let’s tap on the glass until we hear
a heartbeat or the beating of wings—
& look, there’s a damselfly circling
the empty space, her eyes
compound, compound, compound: you are
just one of many copies. The morning
is when we pray & drink coffee
& invent a new language consisting
mostly of warbles. Your hand wakes.
Remember forgetting to lock the door?
So find the stranger in your bed.
His body isn’t as foreign or rotten
as you think. Say yes, I know how
he got here—how all of us got here—
even though you don’t. You couldn’t.