Each Morning Again


As store windows are darkening and displays
are taken down—that is when she walks home,
tired. To take off her good shoes.

To her husband. What to express about
another such day? The given hand
composes shopping lists. As if reminders

were wanted, of the staples, every week the same.
(Though is it any better how produce changes,
so seasonal and fickle and wilt-prone?)

She goes home to the cat, to pet him
where he poses, always on the edge
of the room, as if considering exiting.


But the jeweled necklaces, kept safe overnight,
are lifted back into view, onto mannequins’
velvet throats, each morning again.

Bodies rise everywhere. To possibility
and could be. Poets return to making metaphors’
pairs, which must be unexpected. And the cat,

it turns out, loves this life, surprisingly much.
When he becomes ill, he struggles to, once more,
map the neighborhood by familiar odors.

Now, in the remains of earlier prey, strands
of worms shine and curl. Their time
just beginning. The eggs like pearls.

Rose McLarney's collections of poems are Forage, forthcoming in September 2019, and Its Day Being Gone, winner of the National Poetry Series, both from Penguin Books, as well as The Always Broken Plates of Mountains (Four Way Books).

You Might Also Enjoy


Fady Joudah

I forgot to say goodbye to the kids.
I knelt into my weeping until my heart
broke me awake.


Origin Point

Emma Hine

My mother calls—she’s had the dream
again, the one where our first dog,
Ivy, has left and taken up with another. . .


Magnitude and Bond

Taylor Johnson

We were, all of us, ethered
             when the window broke. Soon after, the floor


Further Reading

Heads Up: We recently updated our privacy policy to clarify how and why we collect personal data. By using our site, you acknowledge that you have read and understand this policy.