New Light Year


    I feel premature, being


    awake barely before


    the light and


    feeling much farther


    from the day.


    I am deep winter,


    a longest night.


    With blown curtain


    touch, I trace newly


    made shadows which


    furnish the furrows


    of your face.


    I feel I should be


    drawing, trailing


    drops of water on


    Stolen novel; please report.


    a smelt-smooth


    summer sidewalk.


    I lack a pen


    of fool''s shard


    ice to fill


    the hollows of your


    brow with the calm


    of a pregnant pond.


    I wish to slip


    down into that moving


    mirror and stop descent


    a brush below my eyes,


    then rise, allow my nose


    to hover bare above


    water making breath


    into waves—a discord


    in the reflected sight


    of sky above.


    And I would love to go mad,


    angry below the symbiotic


    lure of air, to secede into


    gilled sighs of fading light.


    I feel you lying,


    sleeping, a winter


    hot bath to crawl


    into, unnumbing


    my hands, my sprawling


    baby curled toes.


    - Kat Isacson