Second Sunrise
by Gardner Dorton
Speak to me, for maybe the last
time. This minute, already stolen,
turns away from us
the same way birds
are turning from the city.
Hold my hands
as if they are not
already guillotines, as if this
kind of dying is not communal.
So it does end by fire,
in second
sunrise, and we will become
the last great shadow, hungry.
Hurry, and hold your joy
like it ever
knew you. I am so sorry
that every word
I write is not an act
of creation, but
the sirens are burning, they call
everyone to be a prophet, and ask we move
off the crags into their drowning,
they beg that we
listen. Hold out your hands,
cup them,
and see what you are given.
Gardner Dorton (he/him) is a Tennessee poet living in Tallahassee, FL as a PhD student at FSU. His poems have appeared in Hobart, Crab Creek Review, and Narrative. His chapbook "Stone Fruit" was published in 2021 by Glass Poetry Press.