Drawing by Meghan Harvel.In the night, I woke to
moonlight coming
through the window-shade and
whispering voices downstairs—
only they were echoes from my dream.
Like fog slithering between
hay bales, an unused hanger,
a black silhouette in
a lit doorway—
there are visibles that don’t fill space,
but rather hollow out stomachs
and empty lungs of air.
Like when a person dies—
alive one day, then not.
Yet there’s still
her toothbrush,
her lip-prints
on a nightstand water glass.
Like how there’s always dust
on a windowsill,
a flicker in a candle’s flame,
or a star
just out of reach—
there’s always something
I can’t quite put my finger on.
Erin Lee Ware
Posted over on Applehouse Poetry
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