Morning

by Jill Michelle

n. The end of night and dawn of dejection.
—Ambrose Bierce 

This poem is not about a funeral
not about cold crescent rolls 

the daintily cut strawberries
Dad would have plucked

from the low-key breakfast
spread in the oblong lobby

of Woodlawn’s parlor with its
bloodless corner coffee hutch

offering cups of Starbucks hot
or cold brew for $5 at 8 o’clock.

This poem is not about the
notes of some sonata, calling

mourners into the home’s red
-curtained room, not about

Dad’s sci-fi and westerns
prettily stacked Jenga pieces

he couldn’t read in the end
set as centerpieces. It’s not about

the Navy men who came to pay
military honors, their surgically

crisp movements to fold the flag
offer it to the next-of-kin. It’s not

even about that awful box
beside the smiling photo of him

I’d never seen before, never
plucked the story of. No, this

poem is about all the mornings after
when I’ll wake to a world without him.

Jill Michelle is the author of Underwater (Riot in Your Throat, 2025) and Shuffle Play (Bottlecap, 2024) and winner of the 2023 NORward Prize for Poetry from New Ohio Review. Her newest work is forthcoming in Here: a poetry journal, Salamander Magazine and The South Carolina Review. She teaches at Valencia College in Orlando, Florida. Find more at https://www.byjillmichelle.com