It is Morning Now

and he is not with her.
It is morning now and he is gone.
She closes her eyes and remembers
the theatrics of last night:
shouts, decisions hastily made
and can never be taken back,

a slamming door.

Now the aftermath sinks
in.

As a child,
she believed that dust illuminated
by the morning sun were little fairies
who have come to grant her a wish.
She used to dance with them,
praying, one by one giving them names.

Now the aftermath sinks
into regret. She is no longer a child.
She clenches a small bunch of her blanket
in her hand. It is morning
and she wants to pick up
the utterances from last night
and eat them whole.

She stands up and opens the windows by the bed.
Then she is a child again, dancing
with the dust fairies, wishing
him back. She will give them names—
God’s names. Until all
His billion names have been spoken,
and nothing more is left to utter