slow phoenix
by erika
The sky this morning
is the same color as my french lace curtains
or the ashes of bones
No mountains to speak of
No eyelet of clouds
It is under skies like this
that I want to forget myself
dissolve into the they say there could be snow on Tuesday air
and put my broken heart to bed
But I make the coffee
an imperfect pot
and stir in a hopeful amount of cream
It’s only October and still, below the treeline,
winter is coming
and I can’t sleep past 3am for all the sounds
of slow-dying
the sky is falling the sky is falling
or maybe I am finally rising