Laura E. Davis

L a u r a   E .  D a v i s

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I Quilt the Morning

My blanket, pockmarked

with woven snow-birds,

my morning cheeks soft

as white linens. My back,

a teacup. Eyelids, the oak

branch. I wipe sleep from

my face. Cold feet swipe

the floor, shuffle, and I ya-

wn a deck of cards. Skin:

the three of spades. I stre-

tch and my teeth whistle.

I quilt the morning: inhale

the slow ticking of sun—

my legs jackknife the day.