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Jessica Morey-Collins

Spoils (of)

 

My elbows root a new kitchen table

to my chin. My eyes, brief peonies,

scatter across the last two years:

 

hours bunch around you--ridge or valley,

eclipse: no lonesome quota of good books

or aged teas can quite silver past

your shoulders, your stone-

ground coffee, the gentle shake of your hands

plunging the French press and rarely

 

spilling. No matter how

thick I corded the dig of my heels,

you slid away. My wish just tin foil

over a dish we swung around in meticulous jibe

but forgot to write a recipe for. My wish, the tin

foil: cragged backtalk to the tink of the refrigerator

light bulb. Nothing keeps forever.

 

 

Jessica Morey-Collins is learning to observe her mind in Taipei, Taiwan. Her poems can be found in Poetry Quarterly, The Literary Bohemian, The Wild Lemon Project, Cordite, Tin Canonn and elsewhere.