New Light Year

  I feel premature, being

  awake barely before

  the light and

  feeling much farther

  from the day.

  I am deep winter,

  a longest night.

  With blown curtain

  touch, I trace newly

  made shadows which

  furnish the furrows

  of your face.

  I feel I should be

  drawing, trailing

  drops of water on

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  a smelt-smooth

  summer sidewalk.

  I lack a pen

  of fool's shard

  ice to fill

  the hollows of your

  brow with the calm

  of a pregnant pond.

  I wish to slip

  down into that moving

  mirror and stop descent

  a brush below my eyes,

  then rise, allow my nose

  to hover bare above

  water making breath

  into waves—a discord

  in the reflected sight

  of sky above.

  And I would love to go mad,

  angry below the symbiotic

  lure of air, to secede into

  gilled sighs of fading light.

  I feel you lying,

  sleeping, a winter

  hot bath to crawl

  into, unnumbing

  my hands, my sprawling

  baby curled toes.

  - Kat Isacson