this time i slip the curve under
my tongue to curl, this etched
morning, this slow creaking light
that lisps a leak, that creeps in
easy to kiss your lip, that weaves
your lock and loops a leg across
your body. this time you wake
me up. you pick my body up off
the gallery floor, having
gathered the shoes i kicked
into the corner while eating
the exhibition with an open mouth,
a flat tongue. you walk my eyes
down what i can’t remember;
i duck into the curve of your neck.
you will always clean up after me
in the morning. you will always pull
my socks on for me. this time either
leaps or lingers but it is not
wasted, looping lightly over
and over, a trace light that
peeks or peers, a teethed grin
that makes lofty plans. i do not step outside
this morning or any.
Jessica Anne Robinson is a Toronto writer and, more tellingly, a Libra. Her poetry is featured or forthcoming with MacroMicroCosm, untethered, Diagram, and Room magazine, among others. Her debut chapbook, Other Mothers’ Funerals, is being published with Frog Hollow Press. You can find her anywhere @hey_jeska.
Header photograph by Deborah Hughes
Header artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson
Vast 