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Accidental Morning

 

Late turned to early when the mail slipped under the door,

a tiny crease of lemony light covered, then revealed. 

Those pebble steps.

 

Somehow the tea cooled. You called it the colonizer’s drink,

and I put my hands over my ears, I said,

to warm them.

 

When the heat turned off, we knew it was spring again.

The marigold splashed itself into the hallway,

despite our protests.

 

I placed a petal in the oval of your chest (but your body had grown

out of my stretch). A mailman’s thumb.

Smudged return address.

 

All of it, morphing without our consent. No wonder

I fumble like any accidental supplicant, whose prayer

is for a single lull to stay and be.

 

Note:

Cathy Go is the recipient of the River of Words Grand Prize in Poetry and a Columbia University fellowship funding her first chapbook project, which aims to present both oral history and poetry in a dialogue on memory, landscape and diaspora. She has been published in Cuckoo Quarterly, Just Poetry and the Columbia Review.