Dragging around the light

is like hiding it,


head tucked, bleary

from beating against the cage.


Skeletons creep through my room at night

cracking bones

on cold wooden floors.

Fence posts call for more

privacy, sound the alarm.

Dogs bark alone

at my midnight snack—

skillets frying mad women,

small and unharmed.


Fear of the dark

is my excuse;

there are far too many bleak dead-ends

where I wake, unable to scream,

praying the light will loosen,

drop hot into sacred silence,

burn a hole for the moon.


We’ve been taught to drag around the light, asking that our performance measure up to some righteous standard. But as long as we can’t find it inside of us, the only thing that will awaken us is our nightmares. Even then, however, the light is the longing for light.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

2014-09-08 22.08.37

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