I thought her room was always dark,
set at the center of the house,
with only one small window
opening into an air shaft.
But after everyone left,
her curtains began to burn, glow
with orange light, slow spark
of morning sun, that now, let loose,
set fire to all her room: the walls,
the bed, the dresser, every crack
deepening in a rift
between some midnight wish and shadow.
I watched it blaze, then fade, then flow
and the whole room founder and drift
back to its daily darkness,
ash of a brilliance now so black
no one could tell it from the dark,
not even she who slept in silence,
her body working the bellows,
her dreams crackling in its draft.
Michael T. Young
Transcriptions of Daylight, Rattapallax Press,
Reprinted by permission of the author.