by Christina Lee
and we have scattered it all across the kitchen table.
At least a hundred pieces left, so we sit for a few minutes tonight to gather it back, letting our talk lapse and our thoughts drift,
lost in the search for the bluest vein of night sky.
This pile is for the absence of light, and this pile is the true darkness. This is where I’m keeping stars and parts of stars.
We mutter things like
this is the brightest, here, and try this bit that looks like a halo up in the corner there
and we nod and sigh and keep the screen door open in hopes of a breeze.
Outside the fireflies spring up into the dusk. So much like sparks, these little jagged lives, also intent in their searching.
You fit a piece in, finally, and we both let out a soft cheer, reminded that each fragment we have sorted, turned and turned again without direction,
has been cut to fit in just one place which will be found, if not tonight, then soon. Maybe on some other night just like this one,
our heads bowed, hunkered in, as the dark falls soft around us, and the lamp paints us safe in its bright circle.
Christina Lee has published poetry and essays in Prairie Schooner, Cream City Review, Stirring, Tin House’s “Broadside Thirty,’ The Seattle Times, and elsewhere. She has recently relocated to Seattle after 10 years of teaching public school English in the Los Angeles area and is currently a WITS poetry teacher for Seattle Public Schools.
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