Register Monday | February 18 | 2019
Sometimes a whole day Sara MacCulloch, Fields at Dusk (2016), 20" × 20", oil on canvas.

Sometimes a whole day

New poetry from Anna Swanson.

We nap smooth as a cake
knife, slicing this week

into as many days as we please
and eating them all. Again, again,

we are knives or mouths or perfect
peaches. We sleep

like soft fruit in an upside-down cake,
wake warm and split-open,

decorating a new day. And so it is
that in this one week I wake

thirty mornings with you. Slip bare feet
into rubber boots two sizes too big,

make the sleepy walk
to the outhouse in my underwear

or tank top or the padded plaid jacket
you hang behind the door.

One morning we drive through the dark
to Pointe Saint-Pierre and wait

on blankets in wet grass. A storm
baffles the horizon and the sun rises

somewhere we can’t see.
Small servings of sky turn pink.

A seal flashes a speckled belly
and then rolls over as if falling

back to sleep. A ...

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