Epithalamion Aubade

Rebecca Morgan Frank

Read a micro-conversation with the author here.

for J and J

Wait, it is morning.
The birds forgive the night.
Up above them
the highest branches try to reach
into the past by turning toward space
like the first astronauts—curious
and reaching for the day moon.
Right outside our window,
the smallest bird imagines life
on one of those far planets.
I wish I had its relationship
to gravity, the means to push away
earth with my own will and strength.
The means to touch the wind
and sky and return for my earthly needs,
to return for the song across the orchard,
to return effortlessly to you.
But it is morning, and we won’t
lie under the same angle of moon
for four more days. Every week,
this leaving, every week,
the dull highway,
while in our dreams a part of us
is caught rustling
in the leaves, together,
together always under
the cool and burning stars.
In this waking, I watch you,
think about how that small bird’s heart
would explode in space.
How my own feels the pressure
on the highway as it will soon
stretch between us, how I’m never
quite sure I’ll make it back
to our own earth, back
to where you sleep soundly
to the bird’s morning song.

. . .

Read another poem by Rebecca Morgan Frank by purchasing a print or digital copy of the May/June 2020 issue here.

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