L.L. Barkat’s “Love, Etc.” volume 11

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

keeps knocking

its hollow knuckle

at the old wooden sill

L.L. Barkat

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