Morning Song

Morning Song

By Beth Casserly

the eye in your telescope knows its twin sister is

the curve of your blade.

float, ephemeral, every morning. the red strings of fate and inspection worm along our

mattress to pull me into the waking world.

object of your love,

i’m subject to your desire.

abject pride blocks that path from the door to what happens between just us.

“put your hands up, this is a strawberry” i whisper shout.

no answer - you’re not ready to be vertical yet, but here we are on the why.

how can i

construct

anything for you when you -

constrict

the tendrils of my tongue,

contradict

all i thought i wanted,

construe what i need don’t mis-

conspire for our future when the present is leaking through my fingertips as they glide

across your spine.

i sleep well between your walls,

badly alone.

will i have a summer at all

or will i be desperately failing to build back to my home.

could an orange be peeled in this home?

could you peel one just for me? patience, baby, i’m almost there. scoop the kiwis and clean

the pears.

doodle your face in my office and the back of my mind.

as sacrilege and sun intertwine on my tongue;

i savour the taste, and swallow my pride.