The mornings, a poem by Phil Rice
A cold pillow holds my head
as I listen for your words;
there is no crucifix here,
only your voice between the sheets.
Turning toward your side of the bed,
I bat my eyes at the empty space;
�You need to get up,� I hear you say,
the sound hanging sweetly in the air.
My legs, unsteadily familiar,
can�t contemplate the walk today,
so I wait until your voice is gone,
and only your breath remains
to guide my feet to the floor.
Phil Rice is a native of Tennessee who currently lives and writes in the shadows of Chicago. He serves as editor-in-chief for Canopic Publishing, and is also co-editor of Canopic Jar, a literary arts journal he founded in 1986. Everything Canopic can be found at this link. The venture is also on Facebook.
"The mornings" is reprinted here with the poet's permission.
as I listen for your words;
there is no crucifix here,
only your voice between the sheets.
Turning toward your side of the bed,
I bat my eyes at the empty space;
�You need to get up,� I hear you say,
the sound hanging sweetly in the air.
My legs, unsteadily familiar,
can�t contemplate the walk today,
so I wait until your voice is gone,
and only your breath remains
to guide my feet to the floor.
Phil Rice is a native of Tennessee who currently lives and writes in the shadows of Chicago. He serves as editor-in-chief for Canopic Publishing, and is also co-editor of Canopic Jar, a literary arts journal he founded in 1986. Everything Canopic can be found at this link. The venture is also on Facebook.
"The mornings" is reprinted here with the poet's permission.
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| Phil Rice |
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