Erin Murphy

INSTEAD OF TEXTING MYSELF A DRAFT OF A NEW POEM,
I ACCIDENTALLY SEND IT TO THE COMCAST TECH

Nipple, milk, unbuttoned
blouse, colostrum—

it’s a poem about nursing
my born-too-soon son.

Our TV’s been glitchy
all week and goes black

during a series finale.
How can we live with

not knowing who’ll die?
Try resetting the modem,

the cable guy suggests.
No luck. So I reset

myself—like Auden, I learn
to look at an empty sky.