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Morning Sickness
By Len Kuntz
The past’s broken pallet
parades around me at night.
How many windstorms are there?
And the gutters gush out rain
like vomit,
morning sickness,
bulimia.
For every answer the day brings,
evening strips it bare by ridicule.
I slip inside a duvet
and use the clean sheets as baby’s breath,
bringing them up to my face,
imagining their silk something different,
hearing the gurgle and coo,
feeling the heat of a warm child
like bread against my chest.
Len Kuntz lives on a lake in rural Washington State. His writing appears widely in print and also online at places like Gemini Magazine, Bluestem Magazine, Stacatto Fiction, and also at lenkuntz.blogspot.com
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