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. Phil Rice