Poem for the Morning News
Sleep like a hush in the hay,
then wake and everything
is tender, not dear,
but senses exposed, alert
to the skins of everything else.
Today is my body
hiding in my car in the strip
mall parking lot, today
we’re not certain
all over again, adding more
coffee, more fear into the fear.
Sometimes I see a wild burro
hiding in the mesquite
of my mind.
When I need it to emerge
I move its shaggy ears a bit
to the left and there’s a calmness.
Is it real this feeling based on
my little theater? Is it real
that we must carry
the burdens of our monsters?
Most of the time what I need
for one day’s thank you I’m okay now
is that tremble of imagination
peeking out at the burro’s
wet eye and many tiny lights
blinking open in relief.
Keep opening, morning
after the next and the next
terrible thing I promise
they will keep coming.
Jennifer K. Sweeney is the author of four poetry collections: Foxlogic, Fireweed (Backwaters Press/Univ. of Nebraska), Little Spells (New Issues Press), How to Live on Bread and Music, which received the James Laughlin Award, the Perugia Press Prize and a nomination for the Poets’ Prize, and Salt Memory. The recipient of a Pushcart Prize, her poems have appeared widely in journals, including American Poetry Review, The Awl, Terrain, Tupelo Quarterly, and Sixth Finch.
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