Devawn Wilkinson

and I wonder, by your snow-drift shoulder, by
the sun - that bored kid waiting impatient
has leant its hot forehead against our window -
what is it we did? What is it, we, what
is it? How the earth turns, how slow -
though not imperceptibly- how it turns you
and you turn, slowly, away from me.
Sleep-slung elsewhere, a sudden kick
at the sheet as the swimmer kicks,
urging towards deeper waters. oh,
I do not even think that you
look beautiful in the morning, only
that the morning looks beautiful
on you. Gold garment. Coat of sugar.

before we met, I was a thought-guess,
you were a held tongue, now a palm-press
puts a mirror here from eyelid to ankle.

I saw you
see me.  Us

and our bodies of proof, unglamorous,
salted by the sleeping. This room
which was a closed mouth
saving its breath, our breath,
since last evening. To speak a word.
What is the word.  Might it be this one,
your one, sweet one, we are important.

Make sure we live forever,
let maps trace other continents -
not this one, this one’s without the
the trembling tic or severe
split of usual tectonics. This one,
our one. What is it. Say it.

Good morning.

                  - Devawn Wilkinson