You rise before dawn. I listen to your quiet footsteps on the stairs, know you haven’t slept, know you’re going to the living room to work at loosening the tension in your limbs.

Yesterday, a scattering of tumors on your scan.

I follow you downstairs, put the coffee on, then stand in the doorway, watching you exhale, arch your spine.

laundry hung to dry 
dapples of light 
on dark sheets 

Bio: Jennifer L. Freed