by Mary Rose Manspeaker
After all,
there are so many things I turned out not to be
I take comfort in counting them
every time the sun rises through my window
If I know nothing else, I know the facts of my life
as they break into other mornings
well enough to reach inside
& draw your curtains
narrow my light: a single column on the wall
until I relearned the childhood joy
of parading through the window
to dance through airborne dust.
There are so many things
everyone else might still be. I try to see
how high I can count before the sun begins
its long descent. Steam rises from my tea.
In the intake before the sigh
dust motes dance in the light
& we all can be—
Mary Rose Manspeaker was born and raised in West Virginia. They currently reside in Brooklyn, where they work for independent publisher Three Rooms Press and are pursuing an MFA with The Writer’s Foundry at St. Joseph’s College. Their work appears or is forthcoming in Hobart and Lammergeier.
Emerge Literary Journal 