By Emily Hoover | email@example.com
The following is a poem submitted to the Creative Section by Emily Hoover. The Gargoyle is currently accepting submissions of creative works including creative writing, fine art, graphic illustrations, multimedia and photography.
To Cold Mornings
The sky’s light opens like the cover
of a dusty book, capping waves with
crests of red, orange warmth, revealing
erect nipples, smell of steaming Joe.
I take a piss, smell your scent, even
though today radio signals deploy
you to western skies. Can’t sacrifice
hygiene. I wash, scrub you from my flesh.
But your freckled body still blankets
my shivering mind, despite heavy wind
gusts, light precipitation, peaking sun.
Escape velocity. Gravitational
pull of deflated mattresses. Beyond
my cigarette pack, I reach for the light.