by David Watts

She rose from bed before me
this morning leaving a swirl in the sheets
the shape of her leaving,

afterprint made of ridges and folds
in the pattern her body made
lying beside me. And now I imagine

a slip of air where she passed
by the bed silently on her way to coffee
and the morning news.

Much is about the evidence
of leaving as we wake
and breathe and move into another

day as if it would always be the same,
while absence rides the hollows of our presence
as we carry intentions through the day

like geese pulling southward. Yet,
a print noticed is a happening saved
in the chambers of the heart

where the strings of memory are chosen.
The morning air fresh against the stale patina
that sleep has left behind,

bringing assurance of new beginnings.
I uncover my body to it.
The afterprint of her safe inside me.

— from Juniper Volume 3, Issue 3