Photographs of mosquitos and a hand
Devin Oktar Yalkin

False Dawn

A poem for Sunday

Waking, you’re delighted: “Oh!” A
long, loud cry. But the dog’s not there.
You were dreaming. I woke looking
at the hands you said were beautiful.
All this dead-end summer, the hours
at the end of the day debriding hope,
the hours in the morning asking fear
to stay beside us. These are the years
beyond perfection, the days the coneflowers
rock from side to side like particles
suspended in the drying early Front Range air.
Yesterday, I already regretted the anger
I felt over dinner in the middle
of it happening. But earlier, we’d talked about
our mothers, like adults, like children.