Aubade

If you ever leave him, this room will still know him
like you did not leave him. In the gold bowl

plums hard with wanting, apples ready,
stems poised, to spring outward. As if nothing

could bear itself, objects sickened by their forms.
The wall aching where a thrown glass once

burst like a star, the mirror heavy with your
swollen face. Until he wakes, you touch yourself

and think of vomiting: you could bend over,
cheek near the carpet, coughing, sweet for hours.

— Shamala Gallagher

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Filed under Poetry, Vol 1 Issue 2

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