Liminal Space of Dawn

We watch the fading back of darkness edge
away and feel the shrinking chill on flesh
which lies-or is it mouths?- in cooling air;
averse to moving from our rumpled bed.

No sound is heard except the whirring fan,
and silent still are sparrows in their nests.
The room, a host of Carnival last eve,
ascetic gray, the shading of a cell.

Our hands do not appear to be our own,
a steepled Rodin cast in bronze, until
mercifully a plane of lucent light
bestows a blush of rose back to our skin.

Relief is what we feel when night adjourns,
and spaces slip to right with dawn’s return.

© 2022 Nancy Sobanik

Photography © Sannah Kvist