Yesterday I couldn’t see the sky.
Perhaps I should’ve opened the blinds,
looked upwards and thought
about dying leaves,
windy winter and future
icicles hanging from gutters. Instead,
I stayed in bed
and watched infomercials
showing buff bodies selling
the world’s best ab-machine.

Winter’s splintered song tangled in bone,
a brittle lament erupting morning
with flashes of light, while blackbirds,
lurking on silvery limbs seen through broken
blinds, line roads of dead branches.
Sound drains into solitude,
homes vanish in dawns
astrobrite brilliance
and the living trees are cedars
embraced by fire.

Remember the gray little bird—
you scared it with your scream.
He flew around the room
looking for solace, a place
to perch. You forced him to land
on pictures hanging on the wall
before scaring him with the bang
boom of the broom leading
him to the opened screen.
How nice he must have felt
to finally be free.

Today under an orange sky
after rain birds play
on damp branches.
Drops fall from leaves
like a leaking faucet.
There’s no hint of sun
or storm,
just the ominous hue
of what’s been morphing
into what is.

Last night we made love.
Afterwards I slept in the curve of your arm
and felt your warm breath on my neck.
The rhythm lulled me to sleep.
In the morning the buzzer woke me
and your side of the bed was as cold
as Madison Square Garden after
another Knicks loss. Since Ewing,
no one cheers or expects
a win anymore.

Kateema Lee is a Washington, D.C. native. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in print and online journals such as Naugatuck River Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, ROAR and others. Her new chapbook, Musings of a Netflix Binge Viewer, is forthcoming (Finishing Line Press 2018).

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