Early Morning by Marie Lightman

Wake early, sunlight streams through
the gap where the curtains don’t
meet. Plays with dust particles
in the air before it falls on your
bare shoulders as you sleep.

I move my body into your shape, close
my eyes briefly, sit up carefully, so
as not to disturb. Then walk naked to
the simple set of three drawers.

Sit next to them cross legged, half
glimpsing my reflection in the
upright mirror. You stretch
and expose a bit more
of your chest.

I put my hands on the lower
drawer, I know to look in this,
just know and slowly pull
it open. Hoping for
some resistance, but it slides
open, like a well made box.

Swallow hard and you cough, which
makes me jump. You’re eyes
flutter. I take out things, turn
them between my fingers.

Two stemmed glasses, one with a
shocking pink mouth
print, two patent white
high heeled shoes, size
7. Big feet, I’m a 4.

You’re awake, eyes boring
into my back. Indignant
I have found out your secret.

Before you can say a thing, I pick up
the shoes and throw them out
of the window.


2 thoughts on “Early Morning by Marie Lightman

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