You Say Mornings Are the Only Time: Bernadette McComish

April 21, 2020, Kate Belew with Bernadette McComish (Los Angeles)

Wait, there is another side to this.
I asked you to wait by the exit sign.

Not much for listening, you slept

through fire and forgot to water the plants.

The plants forgive you much like I do.
What I’m afraid to say is on the other side of this,

things won't be the same. Not breakfast,

not shopping, even kissing carries an uncertainty

that was present before and now lingers in this spring.
What is left to bloom if the weather is changing just like we are?

Every chance of rain— an omen that brings me to my knees.

You say mornings are the only time
you can pretend that life is like it was before,

when we could run on the same side of the street
when I wouldn't hold my breath in passing.

How do we return to late-night tongues and teeth
hands held in want and yes and more, fingers laced

like lovers, like survivors who looked at both sides

and saw each other. Mouths masked, eyes veiled,

I can still feel thank you, its own promise when we break

away purposefully like the water that rushes the street.