Tuesday, April 27, 2021

Tuesday poem #421 : Kate Angus : Mornings I



scroll the pictures
on the screen

unrolling like playing
cards sewn

together end-by-end
into a kind of scarf

that unfolds forever.
I cannot reach

the end
the way my friend

swiped through
every man in Manhattan.

These are such strange
days. I keep an orange

candle on my windowsill
For Good Luck

and I believe
the plants are listening

to me; God (and gods)
and ancestors also. I refuse

to open up
to emptiness

except when breathing
the dark starry air

inside me:
these lungs a galaxy.

I am my own space
station and astronaut.

Drifting, drifting.
So slight the tether

yet how pliable. 



Kate Angus is a founding editor of Augury Books and the author of So Late to the Party (Negative Capability Books, 2016). Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in various places including The Atlantic’s “Object Lessons” series, The Academy of American Poets’ “Poem-A-Day,” Indiana Review, Gulf Coast, Barrow Street, North American Review and Poet Lore. 

The Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

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