That night
Poem - by Pearl Ketover Prilik
on that late eve in autumn the porch light was bright
barefoot small standing on the wood slats that night
she stood near the swing clutching the heavy cold chain
fled the strange broken faces, that house pulsing pain
she stood in the gold illume―the only thing as before
until that wavered as flame, flashed and life was no more
“the porch light is dead”―she called reedy voice small
but no one came―no one but night―no one at all
and night fell as a solid raining of impossible things
dismembered chunks of blackbird broken wings
banging her head, brushing cheeks, those cold feet bare
she a small night-gowned figure alone waiting there
in a moment sure that someone would as always―arise
quick steps would come arms lift her with sleepy sighs
“the porch light is dead” she called into the night
only the rasp of dead feathers drifted ebon unright
as she stood shock still and watched normal take flight
born of wings fallen, now gathered, dread flying free
as a cat now with clear visioned eyes she could see
that nothing would ever return―ever―as it was meant to be