by Raye Hendrix
Today was promised snow but the sky is pure as the purest robin’s egg inverted, sun a yolk. This morning before the light approached the window my lover left me to make the coffee (strong the way I like it) then came back to kiss me on the mouth. Today there is no snow but it is so cold it doesn’t occur to the ice that holds the fish at the harbor market to melt. Today the wind comes from the west so the market doesn’t smell of sea life, but of sea, so the mongers are pleasant. Today the Russian man who sells piroshkies and never smiles sells piroshkies and smiles. I buy two of his piroshkies and he gives a third for free. Today my lover lights my candles, surprises me with cake. My sadness is so large I can’t find anything to hold it. ____
Raye Hendrix is a writer from Alabama. Her debut micro-chapbook, Fire Sermons, is due out this Summer from Ghost City Press. Raye is the winner of the 2019 Keene Prize for Literature and Southern Indiana Review’s 2018 Patricia Aakhus Award. Her work has been featured on Poetry Daily and in 32 Poems, Shenandoah, Cimarron Review, Poetry Northwest, Zone 3, and elsewhere. She holds degrees from Auburn University and an MFA from the University of Texas at Austin. Raye is a PhD student at the University of Oregon studying Deafness, Disability, and Poetry. You can find more of her work at rayehendrix.com.