1

Evening stays in the sheets

as Morning rises barefoot to set the kettle

and run cold water

down her neck

2

My grandparents like to wake up

and eat blueberry oatmeal on the porch,

waving to passing Morning,

her swaying hips

and brown-buckled satchel

3

In her thumb, Morning holds

the chins of the children

dozing in backpacks

beneath the bus stops

4

the one time Morning drank coffee:

the day ran straight into the night

like a thunderclap

5

Sometimes she woke from a bad dream

to find her father’s outline

by the kitchen sink.

his round unshaved face cast over

her water glass

in a bright gray light

6

Sleeping in on a weekend

I think of Morning

only as a small angel,

kissing my forehead

and then sauntering on

7

her socks are never white, but orange.

they are the first thing seen

when she comes up the pavement

smelling like her mother’s perfume.