Phebe Davidson

Everything she loves is gone. How else
explain the emptiness of light that falls
where nothing is, the way it seems to call
and fade away? Alone, she looses spells

like wind quintets into a waiting hall—
pretend crescendos, silence seeking sound.
Around her dust motes stray. Denied the ground,
they hang in air, like notes of music stalled

before they’re heard. The rest will be the round
of day on day, the weight of helpless light
that cannot stay. Finally the night
will come, its darkness pressing down.

Friends will call and want her to converse.
She hugs herself and hopes for nothing worse.

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