This entry is part 40 of 47 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2012


The night before I left that first time,
I stayed up composing a letter
while the three of you slept. We were

guests in someone’s godfather’s house,
a few murky breaths from the bay;
neon poured through the windows

while the air conditioning unit blew
noisy drafts into the room. Along the sea
wall, peddlers hawked their wares.

Traffic coursed through choked streets
humid as the weather. Before first
light, in the morning, it was time

to leave for the airport. One of you
slept through it, was left behind.
A small mercy, I was told, to keep

you dreaming some hours more. I don’t
quite know now if that was the right
thing to do; or what you felt

when you awoke and no adequate sign
materialized for the apology I have been
making in the intervening years since then.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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