Three lights from one lantern, meanwhile
the sun plays tricks over the moon.
It's easy to confuse the palm of my
right hand with the residue of the
morning news; seven dead and the
president says our future's bright
ahead. My plans are etched as cracks
towards fingers afraid to grasp.
I collapse, fold my hands between
my knees and pray to the fragments
of a light I still don't have the
faith to see. And the moon just
laughs at me.
Isabel Sylvan lives along the Raritan Bay where she writes both poetry and fiction. Her work has appeared in numerous small presses throughout the past twenty years. Currently, she is the editor of Poetry Breakfast a daily online poetry journal.