Morning Glory by Utagawa Hiroshige

Morning, Glory

“Unable are the Loved to die
For Love is Immortality.”
 — Emily Dickinson

Call yourself Susie or Susan or Suzan
But call yourself now because we’re angry
That you’re not nearby
But somehow, inexplicably, everywhere.

Angry at the sky
For seeing it all,
At the ground for touching you,
With ourselves
For not knowing the good advice
Other than to buckle up
Or look both ways,
Drive carefully,
Drink two glasses of wine at dinner,
With aspirin, with a
Monogamous lover.

Memory? We’re too young for memory, but
Here we are we
Remember fondly things
We were not fond of:
Picking up the sweater you’ve
Tossed on our sofa or
Resettling your backpack out of the
Path of livingroom traffic or
Closing our doors against 
Earlymorning fiddle practice.

How I would love to hear your fiddle
This morning with my coffee.
How I would love for you to visit
Briefly, unprepared for travel
Un-fed, unraveled, unquestioningly
Susie in a dark blue floral blouse
And black stretch pants,
Hiking boots and shrinky-dink earrings
Ready to bloom, then fade
Bloom again, then fade, like 
Morning glory.

Listen, you’re too young to
Leave us this way, alone, dispersed, like bubbles
Released from a shaken wand.
We tell each other this morning and
So I tell you now: 
If immortality is assured in love, then truly
Love will be your name forever.


Terry Bain is the author of You Are a Dog and We Are the Cat
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