Bugs buzz and bump against that porch light,
lost in their own demise, wizened, but hardly wise.
Bare shoulders thimbled into the night as she leans,
her whole body a set of firecrackers going off one
after another and she can’t stop them—pop, pop, pop--
as the smoke curls and that cutting smell of sulphur
loops him in. Not that long ago she posed
before the mirror on the back of the bathroom door
loving the way the pink clung to her skin, but now
she’s tired of him, his eyes tiny claws, his breath
common swill. Yeah, she liked him before, the way
his hand felt like a tattoo on her arm, a dragon
that claimed her, that made the other girls turn
and stare. Yeah, that was good, fine, like thick
syrup slipping through maples in early spring. But
now, outside her green door, she doesn’t want him
anymore. Wishes she could be ten again, arms
outstretched chasing fireflies, feet bare in wet grass,
no one watching, nothing to decide, questions
without answers as far away as the stars.
Judy Kaber lives in Belfast, Maine. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, both print and online, including Eclectica, Off the Coast, The Comstock Review, and The Guardian. Contest credits include the Maine Postmark Poetry Contest and the Larry Kramer Memorial Chapbook Contest for her chapbook Rehearsing in the Dark. Additional work may be viewed at www.judykaber.com
The Ekphrastic Review
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