Sharing Music by Emily Alexander

Dark morning reaches through windows
until the sky is smudged silver like the teakettle
on the back burner. Here is the slip
of buttons through slits of fabric, the skip and snag
of fleece on cracked hands. Here are my hands
landing on doorknobs, counter tops, the bare back
of a boy whose breath is packed
in boxes, sealed. Here, he is still asleep
in my bed. There, somewhere, in another life, maybe in the light
of California morning, he is unpacked,
saying, isn’t this nice, and it would be, the ocean big
across the street, our knees finally unshaking. Here
we have small feet, knuckles, quiet elbow creases
reaching. Here I am, reaching. Here he is,
sleeping. Outside it is raining, and when it is light, the light
echoes off the wet ground like a song
I forgot to tell him about until just now.

about the author:

Emily Alexander is a writer, a student, a clumsy waitress, an Idahoan, an older sister, and a self-proclaimed foodie. Her poetry can be found in Potluck Magazine, Hooligan Magazine, and Harpoon Review, among others. She was recently awarded the Academy of American Poets Prize at her the University of Idaho, where she is working her way through a degree in Creative Writing.