Summer had been so hot the things we touched burned our hands.
The sky wasn’t black or blue but the dying green of night.
Stars had closed their eyes or sheathed their knives.
I used to think pain was meaningful. I no longer
think pain is meaningful.
The flawed moon acts on the truth, and makes
an autumn of tentative silences.
Sort of a solution to awkward goodbyes.
I held a penny on my
tongue. The taste shocked me,
its brown-gold sweet. I suppose
there are grips from which
even angels cannot fly.
Did you think I would not change?
Source & Method
Lynn Finger holds a B.A. in Humanities. One of her poems won second place this year in the college publication, Sandscript, and third place in the Regional Division. Lynn is in a group that mentors writers in prison.
Photo by Siora Photography