Photo by Johannes Plenio
Lines Written on the Dark
Brian Dickson
I keep thinking, Mom, why
are you here at three a.m.
puttering in the kitchen
when I don’t have coffee?
You don’t say anything, point
up where S. sleeps, legs
wrapped around a body pillow,
her belly with a sphere
of a person unreal
as you three days straight
searching for beans.
I want toast.
I smell flesh
dissolve into night. You boast
the dark hasn’t failed us yet.
Brian Dickson
I keep thinking, Mom, why
are you here at three a.m.
puttering in the kitchen
when I don’t have coffee?
You don’t say anything, point
up where S. sleeps, legs
wrapped around a body pillow,
her belly with a sphere
of a person unreal
as you three days straight
searching for beans.
I want toast.
I smell flesh
dissolve into night. You boast
the dark hasn’t failed us yet.