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Comfort




Comfort




Our house is cold and you are gone.

Cats curled into circles even with the heat up,

the cold won’t recede.



Taking down the Christmas cards,

sweeping the floor, other lonely tasks

take me back to this morning’s first sight:



Your legs exposed from beneath the thick comforter.

In the morning light, the gold of your skin,

the slow movement of flesh, the curve of your calves,



all form a quiet sonata.

The performance becomes real only when

we are both awake and joined under the covers,



warm in embrace, warm in symphony —

this harmony, too soon interrupted

by tasks and duties.



Our house will soon be warm again,

filled with music all our own.

Tasks done, we become each other’s comforter.




Michael A Griffith




Michael A. Griffith began writing poetry after a disability-causing accident. His chapbooks Bloodline (The Blue Nib Imprint) and Exposed (Soma Publishing and Hidden Constellation Press) were released in November 2018. Mike was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for poetry in October 2018 by Ariel Chart. He lives in Hillsborough, NJ and teaches at Raritan Valley Community College.







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