—I'VE GOT TO REMIND MYSELF THAT YOU DON’T GET A MEDAL FOR  BEING THE LAST ONE AWAKE

 

 

 

Morning Sickness

 

 

The past’s broken pallet

parades around me at night.

How many windstorms are there?

And the gutters gush out rain

like vomit,

morning sickness,

bulimia.

For every answer the day brings,

evening strips it bare by ridicule.

I slip inside a duvet

and use the clean sheets as baby’s breath,

bringing them up to my face,

imagining their silk something different,

hearing the gurgle and coo,

feeling the heat of a warm child

like bread against my chest.