15 December 2013

MORNING by April Michelle Bratten

On the morning
of your dark-sky cry,
your foreign howl,
your pale-handed fear,
you phoned to tell me
that I was no sunshine,
only a cloud
dressed in borrowed lightning.

You had fallen out of love with me.

I drove down Broadway
skin and gray parts,
an incorrigible animal.

I phoned you back to say
you did not know me,
not really,
that I was no storm,
only a drizzle,
a water-horse,
eating mist over the day,

and please remember
my mouth is warm enough
to taste clean air.


April Michelle Bratten currently lives in Minot, North Dakota. Her book, It Broke Anyway, was released in 2012 by NeoPoiesis Press. (http://www.neopoiesispress.com/12401/100134.html) She edits Up the Staircase Quarterly.

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