Untitled,  Zachary Vaughn

 

 

 

Five o’clock shadows cast down their doubting eyes.

They turn my wall – a hapless host to a lone Light Bulb – gray.

 

My sea-glassy-eyed window vets each immigrant sunbeam

 

who asks to take refuge

who would settle its errant light

(“anywhere”)

(“please”)

 

Even on the nails

who used to host pictures but those were

voted out in favor of hanging my

hand-washed floral underwear

up to dry like funeral bouquets

 

Even on the backs

of the first mosquitos

to arrive at the feast

before my Great Mesh Wall goes up

 

Even on my porcelain face,

which is wont to ponder,

but instead

looks askance

and instead

pulls a thin veil across the window

and instead

flips on the switch

for the lone Light Bulb.

 

In its castigating orange light

I lean against the shadow-chilled wall

that rests between my bed

and the prayer mats of my family.