This morning’s sky puts on
its cloud-pout, wispysexy, made up like
it’s been watching
lip tutorials on YouTube.
It’s not doing this for me, doesn’t care
if I look—but doesn’t mind
if I notice, doesn’t mind if I
say hello, say a prayer, thank a God
I officially don’t speak to
for making a sunrise so red
I want to trace its lips
with my finger, let it bite
my knuckles, before we decide
it’s better to take things slow.
My sweet sunrise only has a few more
seconds before the sun’s feet hit
the horizon and the sky throws on its blue
dress for an ecstatic ritual I never learned.
This evening, the serious sky begs me
to invent a religion, asks if I remember
how to turn colour into prayer.
Which colour? I ask. What prayer?
It smooths on cloud-silver gloss with a crescent moon wink: tells me to pucker up.
By Jessica Coles