Tuesday, 7 May 2019

The Night Without a Weapon

by Carolyn Adams

I turn out the light, turn
a shoulder to the darkness,
and wonder what will come.

A beast, a man,
a woman, a vehicle, a building?
And who will be driving?
Who, turning the page?

Silent air flows over the bed,
soft rain taps a finger
on the window.
A clock ticks
in another room.
Appliances hum on
and off in the kitchen.

I rehearse the day,
count errors, try to remember
the happy remark
of a friend, their loving touch,
the angle of the sun
in the late afternoon.

Tomorrow’s planes
stretch to all the angles
of the room, and I
drift. Awake at 10pm,
1am, 3am, I fluff the pillow,
adjust the cover, close my
eyes. And then it’s daylight.
Nothing happened. Nothing
came for me. Nothing
taught me a new lesson
in a fun-house classroom,
with a soft-eyed mammal
for a teacher.

* * * * *

Carolyn Adams’ poetry and art have appeared in Beatnik Cowboy, Willawaw Journal, Glass Mountain, San Pedro River Review, and Common Ground Review, among others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, as well as for Best of the Net, and was a finalist for 2013 Poet Laureate of the city of Houston, TX. She is currently an associate editor for Mojave River Review. Having relocated from Houston, she now lives in Beaverton, OR. 

1 comment:

  1. One of those nights. By some alchemy the morning sun brought me a sense of relief when I reached "nothing happened." Whew, another safe passage!