Poetry and Prose from the Center for Writers
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by ANNETTE C. BOEHM
on waking up alone
as a child, i would sleep on one side
leave room for the boy with dusty feet
- his brown skin, his rough, plain things -
thinking, he must be cold out there
the click, the dark switch every night
an invitation: he could have
warmed himself under the heavy down
rested his halo, set his thorn-crowned heart
next to my leaking snow-globe
one room, winter
the fridge sighs in its sleep
the hyacinth’s pale fingertips have pushed
past paper skins to the emerging january
the heater’s belly ticks, tocks with captive rain
i avoid the window - the birds are skittish
their flight might be contagious
i know their hunger is
as they peck at fat and seeds
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