Evening stays in the sheets

as Morning rises barefoot to set the kettle

and run cold water

down her neck



My grandparents like to wake up

and eat blueberry oatmeal on the porch,

waving to passing Morning,

her swaying hips

and brown-buckled satchel



In her thumb, Morning holds

the chins of the children

dozing in backpacks

beneath the bus stops



the one time Morning drank coffee:

the day ran straight into the night

like a thunderclap



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



Sleeping in on a weekend

I think of Morning

only as a small angel,

kissing my forehead

and then sauntering on



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.