In the morning, the sleet —

the sleet in the morning past the overhang

will make a hard line between past —

a hard line between our time

and most of the time, you in the doorway —

most of you past the doorway, my heart —

can I say my heart?

can I say like a flicked sheet floats —

a bed sheet floating away from grasping hands?

In the grasp of the bed I watch the door close,

that closing like the sheet’s crumped, off-centered fall.

This is a kind of praying you say —

you say this, it is still night.

And yes, like a prayer, said every night

and yes dear heavenly —

pale chests pressed like heaven-bent palms,

bent supplicants pressing, asking

may I ask something more

of something more,

something more pressing —

pressing as if it were the boundary between us,

the erasing of it, that would answer the prayer.

Marielle Prince