Fall 2017 / Issue 102

Emilia Phillips

In the bleach-blue light of

                             morning, the reason to


                 stay in bed. In the glass

dropped by the diffident


                             hand opening of its own

                 accord, a one-word horoscope


of nope. In the Muzak

                             playing while you wait


                 in the yawning

line to order your dark


                             roast with cream,

                 in that sibylline satellite


radio, nostalgia’s anti-

                             gravity—the Buzz


                 Aldrin of your heart

planting flags that don’t


                             wave. In the dream,

                 a prophecy of more


dreams. In the crows,

                             take-take-take. In the way


                 one word breaks

into another like a wave,


                             something you didn’t want

                 to say, though you’ve thought


it before. In the TV’s blue,

                             in the sun, the fluorescents


                 at work: you, you. Light’s

always lifting dark’s


                             rock to find you wriggling

                 there, a worm under


the eye, as if that’s what you were

                             looking for. As if it was


                 the last thing you

wanted to find.