Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Melissa Crowe
Labor Aubade
Here is the cold I have crawled into,
out of the damp warren of the bed
where you and our daughter lie.
I’m without your skin’s warmth,
breath-music, hands and feet reaching
each other’s bodies, all that accidental
connection before you take the day’s
polite positions. I have promised to return
bearing gifts, story of how light
wakes slow and blue, anticipation
of yellow. The way night’s
dissolving belly holds
morning with its long shadow, its surge
of traffic and coffee smell. At nine
I’ll call home, where there will have been
only absolutes, black and then light
striping into our rooms, silence
then the metallic exhalation
of a school bus at the curb.
Aware I have traded each detail
of your waking in order to witness
another becoming, I will grip
the hand of a woman as she releases
the sun from where it swelled
32 ◆ Crab Orchard Review