This entry is part 38 of 55 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2012


“…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.

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