Mornings
A poem by Sandra L. Faulkner
Mornings
at the kitchen table
nicked from generations of use
I unravel the years
knit to my body
I stuff my shell
with the crunch of sour gum seeds
& the bumpy bark from pines
used as chalk for driveway hopscotch
stitch together my seams
with the warble of brown thrashers
& the thrum of pine beetles
from my parent’s backyard
cram pieces of granite
capped with moss and lichens
into my pockets of flesh
to reinforce scabs scraped on knees
the smell of humidity and pine needles
honeysuckle wrapped around trees
invades my landscape with
the nose of Proustian memories
mornings I re-member my self
with yarn and needles
purl my way back
to the longing of youth
About the Author:
Sandra L. Faulkner is Professor of Media and Communication at BGSU and writes, teaches, and researches about close relationships. Faulkner’s poetry appears in places like Antiheroin Chic, Ithaca Lit, Gulf Stream, Writer’s Resist, and elsewhere. Faulkner knits, runs, and writes poetry in NW Ohio and lives with her partner, their warrior girl, and three rescue mutts. https://www.sandrafaulkner.online/
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