The purple light of dawn stretches
its fingers through the window.
I think the love is obvious,
I lay your work clothes on the edge
of the sofa as you sleep, coffee
grinding, the soft burr as dust
sprinkles the cabinet
like trimmed hair. Sometimes
I lay in your spot on the bed
after you’ve left it, warmth
and body imprinted, your hair
musk on the pillow . . .
the plate of the sun rises
into the sky like a gong,
your motorcycle revving
just outside the window, soft split
of smoke in cold dawn,
your head compressed in the small
unit of the helmet, branches
scraping the sky like cement
on skin, no I won’t think
like that, like your body
falling out of the sky.
Laura Ohlmann is a MFA graduate from the University of Central Florida. Her work has
appeared in The Rumpus, The Lindenwood Review, The Maine Review, GASHER, South Carolina Review, South Florida Poetry Journal and others. She's one of the Associate Editors of West Trade Review. She currently lives in Asheville, NC and enjoys traveling in her converted Honda Element and biking up mountains with her partner and dog.