“…the song of my dark hour.” ~ Carlos Bulosan
Something knocks twice against the dark to make her sit up
with a start: what sound? what presence? what flicker?
There’s a pile of laundry, stacks of books on the floor.
Blinds still drawn: against them, what is that flicker?
One of the neighbors smokes Cuban cigars. She smells
the whiff of smoky leaf, but never sees a match flicker.
She dreams in disconsolate cycles: in one, winged ants gather gossamer,
a dress about to drop over her head. Then they’re gone, in a flicker.
In another, nothing but white cotton sheets stretched out like
clouds. Her feet don’t touch them. She floats, light as a flicker.
That was from long ago: now that door, that dream, seems closed—
Wistful in that dark hour, she mouths a name, longing for its flicker.
As ever, the sun labors across the steep slope of hours; then
quickly descends with what it’s gathered, faster than a flicker.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.