Ultimately, isn’t that all that’s left, the hunger
for community and the sacrament of fresh bread
with an egg hollowed from its center, filling the cave
of mouth? No way to empty the memory bone
except by noticing what’s glazed by the moisture
of morning. In my rocking chair, I’m reading a book
on mindfulness, my stockings hiked up until the elastic
imprints my knees. I keep reading until it’s time
to wash down the last crumbs of the bread body,
flesh rippling like clear water in a tall glass,
fingertips imprinting its sides
as a band of white light bleeds through.
Susan Michele Coronel lives in New York City. Her poems have appeared in publications including Spillway 29, TAB Journal, The Inflectionist Review, Gyroscope Review, and Prometheus Dreaming. In 2021 one of her poems was runner-up for the Beacon Street Poetry Prize, and another was a finalist in the Millennium Writing Awards. In the same year, she received a Pushcart nomination and was longlisted for the Sappho Prize. She just completed her first full-length poetry manuscript.