I do not blame the shape of morning here
but it is ordinary
no noise that hints at life
I haven’t heard
for over a year
the sesame bun vendor
Morning used to be mine
I would sit on the kitchen balcony
eating a bun with thyme
sipping tea with my mother
its sweetness measured
by the look in her eyes
I used to tease our morning talk
and say stop looking at me
I don’t want to die
from sugar
Morning used to be mine
I would run across the beach sand
to flatten the earth afterward
I was never training myself
for a country that would turn into shoreline
But morning here
has nothing of me
nor of my mother
nor do I resemble myself
and each day
I wish
to return
and be touched
by a crumb of sugarEvery morning before resurrection
is still a morning
but I
was resurrected that day
and I no longer grasp time
since I disappeared
from my mother’s sight
