Yes to bare feet; it is April. And yes to any illuminative stab at all the roiling black out back.
At twilight, darkness and light brush past one another. Civil or uncivil, you ask? Both—and always silent. An unspoken “Ah—there you are,” exulting or grim, at each passing, each change of the guard. Day breaks, or night falls, and there’s no snapping string, no shattering glass, no jagged pieces to sweep up or tiptoe around. A brief encounter, a hard stare or a furtive embrace, and then a clean break, clean unless you count shadows, dark closets, the moon.
Copyright (c) 2019 by Allison Boyd Justus. All rights reserved. Former Murfreesboro resident Allison Boyd Justus has worked for Tennessee’s community colleges and public schools as a library assistant, a teacher of English-language learners, and a teacher of intellectually gifted students. She is now pursuing a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing and Environment at Iowa State University.
Tagged: In Poems