a felt moon gulping shards
of trembling honey
was the orb keeping hum
between us, un-palmed,
all last night.
when we walked across the ice,
when we trudged heavenward
so you could give me the tour—
“the lightbulb, i call it”—
you never once took it.
my hand, idiot, my hand, i prayed,
into the cracks, all those cracks
vacuuming light through
sink veneer and
stair tread and
water freeze and
you.

today i told myself about you.
i told myself you’re afraid
of the dark with all
the aim of someone who still
believes in god,
but i couldn’t get it
to stick

About the Author

Emily Sirko is a junior English major at Kent State University. She likes cold weather, film photography and record players, but above all else, she loves to write. She writes when the world is quiet and does not nag, most often in the space between days and on Sunday afternoons. Her writing usually stems from nature and her attempts to bottle a sample of its breath and transfer it into words, not forgetting to inhale some of it for herself along the way.

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About the Author