The Morning After

this coffee, black as sin, forgiveness-sweet

these bruises licking knuckles’ arpeggios

this lamp dribbling light into this gloom,

across these eyes, reluctant tortoises

these knees curled snail-tight to rattled ribs

this chair, this blanket a hungry nest

this wind of witches’ voices stuttering these blinds

against this window’s flat indifference

this book a broken bird discarded on

this armrest where this cat insists now

this hummingbird purr, this sugared skull

knocking against mine, this swollen cheek

pressed tight to fur, rubbing, erasing every-

thing but this, rubbing, this moment, this.