Do you behold a band of light on the horizon
marching home from war, engaged
no longer with those fingers of darkness
that dig in at the edge of a field,
drag people to a precipice
from which they look but never see?
Dear sentry, don’t let us be wombed forever
in black, tortured by a heartbeat—
a sound hidden in sleet, a gray
that won’t let day be day. Don’t force us
to communicate in code—our voices
in dots and dashes, our words hot
but never touching, then cooling
until they are hard enough to walk on,
to follow without falling through.
Can’t you see?
That moving alone and crashing into
are much the same—neither is a dance
we can name like that bright ballet
where he lifts and she rises.
Copyright © 2019 by AJ Saur, from Set A Flame (Murmuration Press).
Eighth Day Aches 