Chilled Through
Marge Piercy
Waking in the morning without you,
you sleeping two thousand miles
west where it is earlier and dark still
I am silly and sad and don't get up.
The day seems spoiled milk already.
The day is too thin to walk on.
It will give way beneath me.
I look forward to nothing
but its shriveling with twilight
another empty jar of night
two more bleak awakenings
until you return like summer
in February, my own miracle.
This lack whines in me, a wind
off the salt flats. The taste
of an empty glass. Wanting exhausts me.
I wish I could hibernate like a bear
and not even dream till you come.
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