Isn't it funny the way light plays,
how hiding it inhabits other faces and
sheds like skin, clings save for my skeleton
shell. I am left with scraps only,
the dripped leavings of ancient candle.
Maybe I could fight for morning light.
Maybe I could filter the blue hour haze,
rearrange my gaze beyond empty glass,
even momentary glimpse another ending.
Would I own the outcome? Recognize
this quality of light? I fear blindness so
downward glance to spite the dawn.
Still sun will rise above hurt feelings and
leave me shadow slouching, let me to
my work, my private war waged over
tabletop, elbows stabbing. Silence another
casualty– I am not immune to sleep
walking, to nightmare games.
I could hang myself on this hand,
surrender to solemn requiem, fingers
finding prayer in the starved darkness.
Emily Reid Green
Emily Reid Green's poetry, creative non-fiction and flash fiction have appeared in publications including: Skipping Stones, Common Threads, The Font, The Linnet’s Wings, Khroma, Gravel, and Skive Magazine. An unabashed bookworm and avid knitter, she lives with her family in Toledo, Ohio.
The Ekphrastic Review
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