Cover “The Therapist” by Pat Wilson


Jennifer Abel

Bicycling across the bridge before dawn. The small sarcophagi in my bike’s back basket are rattling. Their metal edged corners clicking, just shy of the tempo made by a leaf caught in one of my wheels. This, I think is a newer aubade, a fresher morning that orange juice. A commercial. A car. A windowpane. An eye. Late night is the same blue. Buildings of the small city illumed from inside, like a swimming pool. A castle in the sky or a castle at the beach. Your lips. Photographs of every actuality not perceptible by ordinary means. Halos of heat and fingerprinted, skinprinted sheets. Sweat and the sweet exhaustion….