He makes chickpea crepes for breakfast,
fills them with sweet pears and ripe bananas.
My tea steeps in a rose china cup.
Through the window, a cardinal
startles from the lilac tree, swoops in for
morning seeds, jostles a raspberry finch,
a dominance of red to make space for his mate.
Somewhere, a child's voice, a school bus,
last days before summer's reprieve,
an early lunch. Blue jays sound a morning alarm
from the woodpile, chipmunks cherry-pick their
way through tousled greens. My finger scrolls,
presses for news under a smudge of butter.
Then all the starving children, listless bodies
covered in promises and lies, enter the kitchen,
lie limp on cold tile, beg me to turn off the sun.
Morning Alarm by Pamela Kenley-Meschino | Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
