Liza Katz Duncan: Aubade

Let the kettle groan: you will wake
in the dark, close your hands

over your cup, squint through
the plume of steam into the sky’s

auburn clouds. Let the air conditioner stir
a tiny storm. Let the porcelain

chip and sliver. Lacquer the table
with rivulets of tea. Leave the stove on.

Leave the window down as the smoke
draws shadow pictures in its wake.