No Two Mornings

By: Kendra Kopelke

The morning light thumb-tacked against the window

its shine slap-happy on the four cars on the street

the lawn blinded

the sidewalk a ribbon of sand

edged in black shadow

a few fallen leaves shine like broken glass in the grass

Sometimes I get lucky

and can see right away

and I don’t need a river or mountain to lift myself out

My wish, to get inside, get inside

this world, under its cover of

used canvas, read the notes

scratched on the underside. If I’ve learned anything

I’ve learned no two mornings alike

no two moments

either, even my eyes change

their receptivity

and the entryways change, the passwords, 


there is no sure way

and it’s not as simple as seeing and not seeing.

The living room window is dirty

but keeps things straight,

and will sometimes tell me

when I’m getting warm.

Even without a crow, something happens in the sky.

I’ve never sat in a confessional, but I think here

on my couch

I’ve pulled the curtain. On the other side

of the pane sometimes

someone or something listens.

But it isn’t sins I want to hear myself saying

it’s desire.

My mother left the church and said

love was the only religion for her

and died without much thought

              of the next life.

She didn’t want to have much to do with death

and took her doses of heaven and hell right here on earth.

She just wanted to live, that’s all,

              I say it because its purity of desire

was never lost on me, to keep living,

even when I had to

put her lipstick on for her. She grew more beautiful

the less room she had

to move about in.

Heaven pooled around her.

Yesterday, walking with my dog at sunset,

a band of pink light opened up

on the horizon, I wished desperately

to be inside that pink,

to feel it brush my skin and taste it on my tongue.

To be the lozenge the sky would put in its mouth.

I wanted to be a fox that runs thin as a shadow

between the houses,

to have a heart that fits perfectly inside its chamber.

The browns of earth, the rust-colored leaves, the golden, mellow trees

the aroma of decomposing, the hidden light,

the autumnal silence

played like smoke.

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Kendra Kopelke’s is a recently retired editor of Passager, a journal and press for writers over 50, which she co-founded in 1990. She was also founding director of the MFA in Creative Writing & Publishing Arts at the University of Baltimore. Her books of poetry include Eager Street, Bladderville, and Hopper’s Women.