night

All posts tagged night

Shaded.

Published December 2, 2015 by April Fox

In that final hour, before the stars

set themselves

against the charcoal sky, there is a shroud

up on the mountain

smoke and fog, the gravel path

the only way

in or out

shaded pink by the last, sad efforts

of the sun

to stand her ground

Before coyote songs and the stuttering of

owls drive us back inside

to the fires and the kettles screaming,

televisions calling with their familiar

lullabyes, the sounds of gunfire

echo the staccato beat of

our fingers, tapping

waiting

impatient for the good stuff

the sales and the sports

and just before the night goes black, and the moon breaks loose

and the woods songs come to greet us

like an old familiar friend,

there is a moment, just a fraction of a second

when we think we might remember

what it felt like

to be safe.

image

Maybe.

Published July 18, 2013 by April Fox

maybe you remember
a time when
the sky was small and vast and
concealed in the palm of your
tiny pale hand and wide,
stretched tall against the bleak black
backdrop of the
universe
infinitesimal
immense

maybe you were just as small
and invincible
and grand.

maybe you remember when each note of a
tune fell
one by one
into your open, empty head
piling up like lincoln logs
building magic out of nothing
and you stood atop the structure
in your mind and played
confetti
with the stars

and
maybe
you remember
photo flashes and night
and the sun like a torrential rain crashing
down and burning you
until you froze to death
captive, held
by a smile and a line
from a long-forgotten
not yet written
song

or maybe you are simply
restless atoms,
nothing touching
nothing
touching
everything
and turning it
to glass.

floor.

Published April 21, 2013 by April Fox

in the dark, fumbling for the lightswitch
like a drunk still wiping whore-red lipstick
from his crotch and breathing fumes of
cigarettes and stale whiskey on the doorman as he
tries to maintain some sense of
dignity
-the light evades, exhaustion wins
the floor becomes a haven, cold and hard
unforgiving, flat black tiles cracked around the edges
pretending to give solace
in the night.

End of November

Published November 30, 2012 by April Fox

36304_544356902258038_533063063_nyou can’t make this stuff up
(i mean you could
with a little imagination
and if you drank just the right amount
of cheap, cold beer
before you settled in
to think
but it wouldn’t be real then
and this is)

-as real as it gets
without shoving over to the other side
where it becomes philosophy
and then religion
and the opposite,
then
of anything remotely
true-
anyway.

scattered around, little heads and dark, slow breaths
half-awake, courting sleep
lazy in the knowledge
that school is out tomorrow
their stocking feet dangle
over torn arms of old sofas
a cat curled here in the nook of one elbow
a stuffed cow tossed carelessly
down near a hip
clean fingernails
and slightly stained t-shirts
smelling, still
of cold air and laundry soap
one dim light burning
fights off the night

in here, the bulb burns like sunlight
too bright for me now, but i’ll live, till it’s time to shut down
-words are extraneous

past my screen, he is split apart
one blue eye
a curl of dark hair
wedding ring catching the too-bright light, holding it
his sleeve shifts and shows me a second of ink
on his arm, and i look away

memorized long ago
all of this, every blink
every shift of a tiny hand, twitching in dreams
every mumbled curse, tapping at keys in frustration
every long, tired sigh
that replaces the worn-out air in the room with
whatever it is
that we are
as we settle, perfection,
down into sleep.

planet.

Published September 26, 2012 by April Fox

under this
blackbright
sky
i was in your
hands.

i held the scent of
fire
under my tongue
it made me high
it made me sleep
it made me

what was that
you said?
our words are mumbles, something like
dreams
half-awake, forgotten
what was this.

we are hazy filters layered over an already
pitch-perfect
photograph

herbal tea and jazz
picnics on the floor and waiting
patiently
to will our sun-blind eyes
to focus.

Reminiscing on Late Nights

Published July 22, 2012 by April Fox

Late at night, mind burnt from trying to make time and money stretch much further than they possibly can; weary, exhausted from the effort of trying, I stretch out beside him on the bed, my head resting just below his knees, feet angled out away from his head. I need to do the laundry, wash the dishes, sweep the floor, but I am spent.

“I hate this,” I say. “I don’t have time for anything. I hate our stupid sketchy house.”

He shifts his weight slightly so that his knees feel like a hug, sets his phone aside, rests his hand on my ankle, lightly. I peek at him from between my fingers and his beard crawls up his cheeks when he smiles. “I love our little house,” he says, and it’s something simple like this that resets my vision and when he pats his shoulder and I turn and settle in there, I love it too, and I remember why and how we got here.

Later, too early in the morning, I will pull on the shirt he wore the day before and pad out to get a drink from the refrigerator, pausing while the light struggles on, looking at how the moonlight casts shadows through the naked windows onto the ancient wood floors, worn smooth with the same time that I was cursing earlier. Glass in one hand, I will stop on the way back to bed, peeking in at sleeping children, holding my breath until I measure theirs, steady, safe and slow. Back in our room I watch through the space where the blind shies away from the window, my hand on his chest, his beard brushing the top of my head with each breath, as the day comes to life and the sky turns bright and the sun burns off the things that need let go.

dumb

Published June 6, 2012 by April Fox

it’s been a while since i’ve spoken,
really.
brief phrases uttered without feeling to the people walking through the great glass doors
looking to me for guidance
about things that i’ll forget
in twenty seconds-
you need me now
without you i would starve
there is a symbiotic contempt
that keeps both parties smiling,
fake through rotting lips
you go home and tear your fabric
i go home and you never existed
outside the glass-tomb hell
where we were forced
to interact-
anyway, that doesn’t count
as speaking.

here and there, words, small and fat with pure intent, i tell my people
that i love them
that i love them
and i love them
questions proving it:
peanut butter and jelly? do you have clean socks?
how did you sleep?
i missed you while you dreamed
of things you can’t remember-
the thought of nightmares in their minds makes me ill
and turn away.

tonight i drove blind, as usual
making all the right turns, stopping at all the right signs
and pavlovian signal-lights
until i gathered them deep into my arms
breathed in their little girl-smells,
little boy-smells
the spicy neck-smell where oxygen is bred
just below the curve of an ear
resuscitated
by the quiet
and the vast night air
(i might survive tonight
again
tomorrow might be possible
again)

home now, i am soaking up bukowski
alone in a small room
with purple painted walls and fake flowers on the bookcase
second-hand table covered with third- or fourth-hand knitted
afghan
through the beaded curtain i can hear
the sharp intake of sleepy breath
of the small boy stretched across the couch
and see, out of the corner of my eye
the fork held poised in mid-air
by someone held captive
by science fiction on the television

and when i open up the notepad
(electronic now)
to write, he sits across from me,
playing music
i fall dumb again, distracted
life was muted long enough
and still, i fail to speak.

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