Morning Song
by Assiah Platt

    I lay down my fork.
    It was freezing last night, so I held
    close to you. Did all humans originate
    from the same African woman?
    There must have been somebody, you say,
    and eat your toast, test your coffee.
    What I want to tell you then is how
    warm you were, our bodies pressed together, our blood
    interchangeable. You would
    save me if you could.
    But there is my fork on the table,
    there is the food in front of me,
    and I can touch none of it.
    I allow nothing but you inside me.






Copyright 2018 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.