No Place Like Homme
Meridith Gresher

It is morning but my window reads a fallen world,
which is to say, it is not yet the point of dawn.
If I could have my way, I’d lick cocoa, upon my tongue
not swirled but powdery, a waiting foil

to my snoring yokemate.
I’d whisper, homme,

a word without space, only chronos:
clocks ticking, second hands smacking,
chipping life, freckle by speck by clipped nail,
broken heel and yesterday’s wrinkled suit.
Most of all by dumbed down vows.

We can’t even speak sacraments in the King James.
Mysticism is stripped from the broom, sweeping coupons,
catalogues and dust-balls with tulle veils and May altars.

It was not so the day I made my first confession.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,”
but less sin than the girl who threw up in the pew.

I settle on a huge chunk of Lindt, 85% dark chocolate bar,
the first hit upon my tongue, worshipful,
reminds me tastes have shadows, too.

On wrinkled sheets I lie, search my window,
and regard the point of dawn.

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