Poetry

Blinding the dark

It flicks its fingers at the edge of my vision

This shadow

Pulling its cloak quick over my face

To grey my view of everything I rise to meet.

 

I claw the cloak away, but threads always remain.

I can’t see them until I take a good look,

And by then, the shadow itself has returned to repeat the process.

 

It’s made a mistake this time.

This time I step forward to greet it,

And with me I bring the flares of the sun.

 

Poetry

Feigned Ignorance, test one.

Look away.

Our subject isn’t cool, isn’t warm, isn’t quiet, isn’t loud.

She is simply a passenger

journeying inside a tube filled with bubbles,

and hers is burst suddenly, tearing her from the pages of the novel clutched in her hands

to the attention of the male specimen, tipsy as a timer,

demanding her number.

As if she is a prized doll for collectors.

Politely, she refuses.

 

The male specimen does not like this. He accuses her of prudishness.

As if that’s his business.

None of the other bubbles burst while this is going on.

They are content, floating away; raised voices bounce off them,

pleading looks erased by blank stares.

 

Her stop is close, the tube is slowing.

Our subject can get away this time.

Next time, let’s take away her escape route and see what happens.

I’d like to think that all the bubbles would burst then,

but my colleagues say the probability is low.

We’re not placing bets.