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the madrigal, volume iii.v


by helen jenks

In the morning, when you wake,

you look just like your father.

Dawn always comes,
you leave,

One morning, a face
calls you back to the mirror,

ruddy-skinned and familiar.

What? you ask, staring

into your own eyes. Nothing,

he says, smiling.

Just today, there’s no pain.

Good, you say.
And when you wake tomorrow,

the dawn seems different

somehow, as if it is missing
a streak of sun, and you
stand there, in the glass,

unable to look at yourself
until you hear his voice,
quiet and distant in the
early morning air,
and look up at your reflection

knowing now you weren’t alone before,

and here, now, after.
Yes, and after.

Helen Jenks (she/her) is a queer poet from Dublin who enjoys writing about myth, nostalgia, and memory, and often the intersection of all three. She has recently had work published in Green Ink Poetry, Spellbinder, Celestite Poetry, and Warning Lines, with work forthcoming in Dreich, Kalopsia, and Catatonic Daughters. When not dutifully studying history or knitting jumpers, she can be found editing her own poetry journal, The Madrigal. Find her on Twitter at @rosemaryandwool!

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