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Carissa Marie | + Follow Poet |
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Amber Dew

when you wake up in the wee hours of the morning
	or, perhaps, if you were to wake in the wee hours of the morning
and pad with bare feet past your 
humidity-warped Georgian porch
to collect the morning’s paper 
	if, perhaps, they still deliver papers
and the postman tosses your bundle just short
into the dew-dappled, scorched brown fur 
of your weeded and seeded yard-
	you might curse.
		“D*mned dew,”
	perhaps,
		“Now my feet are f***ing wet and I’m gonna track it into the house 
                 and I just mopped, f***, I should’ve just slipped on some d*mn 
                 shoes-”
	or, perhaps, you call over your shoulder
		“The dew fell!”
to the empty rooms of an outrageously priced rental
with a warped porch and brown grass

Amber drops into existence
one moment nowhere and the next
sprawled in the yard with tomorrow’s news in her teeth
sometimes New York, or Louisiana 
or somewhere in NW Germany 
where her mother’s genes are rooted
	or, perhaps,
squished in the backseat of an over-loved four-door
between her violin and the beer breath of a bandmate
teasing lyrics from film score playlists
and the passing streetlights 
of an unfamiliar stretch of interstate

you curse, 
	perhaps,
upon first glance of
sunspotted ochre dew 
		“D*mned dew,”
	you say, perhaps,
incited by her third inked eye
and the noise she projects past 
brown grass,
warped porches,
		and cross-continental stages.
even metal stages 
could benefit from a bit of Amber dew.

Copyright © Carissa Marie | Year Posted 2020

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