I Cry in Front of Edward Hopper’s “Morning Sun” at the Columbus Museum of Art

by Ashley Kirkland

She stares out the window 

from the bed 

— whose bed?— , arms around 

her knees, longs

for something unknown 

to her or me or anyone 

beyond. I’m not sure 

if I envy her her solitude

or pity her her loneliness— 

the ambiguity constant 

on her face. Morning sun

splashes across her 

and the blankets, washes 

portions of the shadowed 

wall. What do the shadows  

tell you? They tell me about 

the sadness present & possible

in all of us. Or maybe 

I’m taking that too far. Maybe 

the shadows are just there 

to juxtapose the light, to remind us 

how warm & good it is 

to bathe in sunlight even if we are 

alone, even if the sadness

threatens to fold in on us 

like the shadows edging 

in all around her now. 

Ashley Kirkland teaches high school English and writes poems in Ohio, where she lives with her husband and sons. Her work can be found in 805 Lit+Art, 3 Elements Literary Review, Cordella Press, and failbetter.