The poem “6 a.m.” starts “You know” and I realize immediately that no, I don’t know. I don’t know what it’s like to wake up at 6 a.m., the bed beside me empty, the sun barely risen. If I’m still in bed at 6 a.m., I am sick. I’m my father’s daughter—an early bird. Usually up at 5 a.m. when all is heavy dark.
But my husband could write this poem. He wakes up “and the sheets seem / extra loud / against themselves.” Yep, Megan’s up and out again, as always.
All that to say, a poem might not work for you simply because it’s outside of your experience. But this one made me think about what it might feel like to be the one left:
from 6 a.m.
You cannot feel the air moving,
but the sound of the shade
its hollow knuckle
at the old wooden sill