Not Luminous in Darkness, but Luminous in Illumination
the fire makes horror of the light
its hungry shadows
sculpting terror in faces
highlighting the hollows
between bones
hinting at all it would eat.
all the flickers pretend
to show all
that you think you have seen
when all is your mind
pretending at answering questions
the flash a lie of hope
that before consuming all
must be splashed out.
Cultured Varieties
They call me sensitive,
a princess, but these bruising peas
keep so many from sleep:
Mr. Big:
The mortgage,
the precarity not of your labor
but your income,
how little your need
or those you care for
matters.
Sabre:
The small digs, the joke
that fell flat, the little insult
the conversation you are sure you could fix
if you went back.
You keep going back.
Early Perfection:
The threat that nothing will ever be
like that again, that there is no peak
ahead that tomorrow you will forget
and fail,
and there will be no redemption.
Homesteader/Lincoln:
The thousand lists,
the groceries, the calls that need
to be made, the prescription that needs
to be refilled, the lesson that needs
planning, the deadlines like ouroboroi
always a new one consuming.
Green Arrow:
The words that come and come,
the plots that magically resolve themselves
only to slip away into oblivion
because right now you need to not be writing
you need to be slipping away into oblivion
for just eight hours,
please.
Frozen:
The ones you place on the aches,
the imbalance in your shoulders,
the crick in your neck, the twinge
in your back, the cat
resting on your spleen.
Little Marvel:
Your hand across my belly,
the other in my hair, the nagging fear
that I have not told you enough today
how much I love you, how much I love this,
us, no matter how many irritants grate
at my psyche.
I don’t even eat peas;
perhaps if I did they would not be half
so bothersome.
It would be so much easier to take them
from my mattress and swallow them
irrespective of variety.
One by one,
as easy as counting sheep,
as easy as the ending to a fairytale.
Mid-Life Crisis
I would like to become immortal again.
Live without the weight
of a yet-to-be tightened noose
secure in the knowledge
of commutability,
of detachment
nothing too damning to lose.
Author’s Biography
Lynne Sargent is a writer, aerialist, and holds a Ph.D in Applied Philosophy. They are the poetry editor at Utopia Science Fiction magazine. Their work has been nominated for Rhysling, Elgin, and Aurora Awards, and has appeared in venues such as Augur Magazine, Strange Horizons, and Daily Science Fiction. Their work has also been supported through the Ontario Arts Council. To find out more visit them at scribbledshadows.wordpress.com.
