Night Loses Memory


    I


    I am a woman without stars.


    Naked, I am an outlying edge of sky.


    These hips are the unseen seam


    between day and night,


    a lure of fading light


    that pulls as it sinks away


    and brings you closer


    when you might choose to swing forward,


    then back,


    with the sway of the slip-climbing sea,


    forgetting that the horizon exists only in distance,


    that what is veiled in remote perfection becomes unsettled,


    distinct when it is below your shifting feet.


    Darkness dutifully fills your steps,


    affords no favors,


    leaves stone, man and sea the same.


    II


    My love, anxiously expectant,


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.waits for the falling of flickering leaves,


    to catch the scraping sweep of their


    flight as sparks in the dark.


    He misses mostly,


    catches me instead,


    holds me like one about to scale a great oak trunk,


    rakes fingers through hair the color of dead leaves.


    I feel as though I should preserve my hair,


    my youth, this winter


    and pack them in wax-sealed jars.


    III


    I want my aging face to grow old like the moon,


    to hold a map of ancient rivers and long-gone seas.


    It will remind me each turn takes time,


    that my face has stolen light which is not mine.


    I will replace it when night loses its memory,


    when night forgets the meaning of sleep,


    misplaces darkness


    and its stumbling finger count of hours.


    - Kat Isacson