Artificial Light

The cafeteria of my elementary school is now a shoebox -

a diorama made with paint that never fades.

The scene is set with dried glue: Cinco de Mayo

a Mariachi band plays for suburban youth

sipping chocolate milk cartons, eyeing the guitarist

who vaunted a three-fingered hand

We talked about it the rest of the day

over broken crayons. Missing limbs.

//

Alligators live in Connecticut rivers and

marshes, I insist. A stubborn girl

flipping through the CD binder, booster seat

nestled into worn leather. My Hello Kitty sandals

are peeling, planted on cigarette-strewn

beaches. Restless road trip legs.

The Fourth rolls around and I still

cover my ears like a child.

//

The parade of family photo albums never gets less

alarming, haunting glint of a wedding ring

purple PJs, and ancestors with familiar

faces that died young. Taut mouths.

I remember the crushing weight of a

Texas sun. Stung by fire ants.

How is one to survive the freefall

until morning?

//

Driving home on the cusp of 23, sheathed

by the rural dark of New England

I thrum through radio Christmas music -

my childhood self in the passenger seat.

"I never learned to French braid,"

I tell her with a dry throat, body heat waning

biding time is a gift

I lounge on memory slashed with dream ~

a woman in the pulpit on Christmas Eve

throwing oranges into the open hands of children

an offering; I've yet to learn the meaning of

worship divorced from grief.

//

Publication credit: 'Artificial Light' was first published in Ink and Marrow Issue 5.

It is a 2024 Pushcart Prize Nominee.