Danielle Sellers-l

Dirge for Morning


 

 

All of northern Mississippi is snowed in.

The sun has hidden its face like a child

so long I’ve nearly forgotten.

 

Years ago I wanted silence, to work

when the house was full

of sleep—

cursed the sudden

baby moaning,

an old ghost over the intercom.

 

I read Snodgrass’s Heart’s Needle

in my ex-husband’s leather chair.

Its worn, cat-picked cushions

curve to my curves. His bloodhound

curls next to me,

breath warms my hip, paws

quivering, still icy

from the day’s first hunt.