Curdling Coffee

Nov 14

The morning’s turning sour on the counter.
I watch it clotting; my own reflection
looks grim in the ceramic mug.

My mother taught me to nod and smile,
and I keep her habits like I keep the
scars under my sleeves - don’t look.

The knives are gleaming. They want
any reason. I open the fridge, and
the cold is all the pain I need.

Yesterday, a sparrow struck the glass.
Today, I envy its ignorance. It knew too
late that the window was not sky.

I press my face to the pane and
whisper into my abandoned coffee
that I wish I could fly.

Noel Graven

Autopsy