a.m.

The pale sun bares teeth at the steel sickle moon,
drooling light that bleeds like a gash between damp clouds.
I creak to life, a rusty barn door hinge,
so early.

I rise on xylophone bones, dig out the Sandman’s grit.
Coffee percolates Stravinsky-savage rhythms.
Morning breathes a hateful hiss,
all mist.

Outside these walls, earth grinds its revolution:
crossties groan under the weight of trains,
neighbors stomp on ceilings when alarms buzz,
dogs bark.

These notes fade as steam escapes the cup that warms my hands,
and all that matters lives here in this black potion,
and nothing matters, but the wreckage I cherish
behind curved ribs.

Lindsey Walker is originally from Chattanooga and currently lives in Seattle, where she studies creative writing. She has won the Loft Poetry Contest, the Marcia Barton Award for fiction and the national prize for best essay from the League for Innovation. Her poetry has been published most recently by PigeonBike and Quantum Poetry Magazine and will be featured in upcoming editions of the Red River Review and the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Her short fiction can be found online at Dew on the Kudzu, the Steel Toe Review and in the upcoming edition of Luna Station Quarterly.

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