November 20, 2017
"Mes de los Muertos"

 

Sunday Mornings, Now, Without You

 
 
 

Sunday Mornings, Now, Without You

I baby-rattle shake out of bed.
Stomach, churn, on command
in sea animal sounds.
I Saran wrap my head
around the fact that I'll never be able
to eat Sunday morning breakfast with you,
ever again. Not on any
melting clock ticks this century.
My arms are shallow,
not even able to carry a Jello mold.
The heart is strong and will get you
through the tough times,
I often reference in a sympathy card
like a librarian,
a good work friend wrote it down
on some Saturday morning.
And I march on.
Crooked halo hat.
Such as every other day,
now, day forty-eight and counting.
I fill the chalkboard, tallying.






Article © Alyssa Trivett. All rights reserved.
Published on 2017-10-16
Image(s) © Sand Pilarski. All rights reserved.


2 Reader Comments

jlt
10/20/2017
11:59:21 AM

Your poems greatly touch my heart! Keep writing. You have a wonderful gift!

Christine
10/21/2017
10:28:44 AM

Wonderful - you are so talented Alyssa.

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