I run early,
up hills like San Francisco’s cousin—or stepsister.
Not blood-related,
but the grime clings the same.
Shopping carts gather behind the house,
where the snowdrops just emerged,
buttercups not far behind.
And I run past
a coffee shop just opened,
selling Jerusalem bagels,
and the stones that lead
from the playground
into the garden.
We talk about the self,
about the no-thing-ness—
nothing there, really, at the center.
Just thoughts colliding.
I think of you
as I steep the last sachet
of cinnamon Ceylon
too hot on the tongue
from the only teapot here,
in this place crowded with things
we do not own.
Ours is an old story:
married, with fortunes
that rise and fall like tides—
money lost,
then made,
then lost again.
We are always moving,
but not forward. •
Emily Pera’s poetry and stories have been anthologized in Halcyone’s 64 Best Poets, Poeming Pigeon, the Bryant Literary Review, Litro Magazine, and Deadline, among others. Originally from Chicago, she is based in Providence, where she and her husband Nick have two young sons. The selected poems included in this submission are from her debut poetry collection, Where the Light Falls.