Emily Brochin

The First to Hold the Dead

Last night I became a tomorrow woman,
There was nothing I could do.

The morning sun offered itself early,
And I saw the swallows coming down.

The men in their identical beds chew a thick breath and struggle for
what used to pass as meaning.

A glass of juice is a beautiful thing.

And still—
Tomorrowland is caught in the meat of yesternight.

When the hands that reached out for comfort
Were hot with the fever of thoughtless life.