Leave the Light On
Briars scrape against my bare feet;
at some point I lost both shoes,
although I do not recall where;
it’s darker than I can ever remember,
moonless, starless—just a black sky
above a smudgy canopy of gangly trees,
the forest of a thousand regrets,
a million broken promises;
how did I get here—out of touch,
out of reach; I must have followed
the enemy. I drop to my knees,
the only place of familiarity,
and cry out to the God of my youth;
leave the light on for me;
I’m coming home.
The Night Streets
wish I could feel safe
in this concrete jungle,
tennis shoes slapping
pavement, double-time
when being chased,
I know the shortcuts,
gaps cut into fences,
a few loose boards
and secret rabbit holes;
mom says don’t take
chances, but that’s like
saying—don’t let weeds
grow in the back-yard;
it’s just that way—
when the sun goes down,
shadows lengthen
into monsters who will
claw your possessions
or snuff you out
for non-compliance;
so, you develop hawk eyes
and the reflexes of a cat;
every night you make it home
is another point scored
for survival
The Bones of a House
Renovated,
reconstructed,
repurposed,
once a family dwelling
now turned vacation rental
it stands, as advertised,
a charming duplex
with updated kitchen.
But when I enter,
1888 drapes like a quilt
over my bare shoulders.
Even through new paint,
there’s a smell of old wood
and cloistered dreams,
a swollen stickiness
to the attic door
and a stirring of ghosts
in the beam of my flashlight.
I smile as boards creak
beneath my feet,
and I note places in the floor
delightfully off kilter.
I imagine the house shivered
when new flooring was laid,
just a few twitches here and there
to maintain its dignity,
to prove its bones
would not be broken.
City Oasis
The cacophony of honking taxis,
pedestrian crosswalks with millions
of talking heads,
jackhammers on concrete, and
the whistles of delivery drivers
smothers me like a plastic bag.
My breath coming in short gasps,
I wriggle through the sea of shoulders
and hail a bleating yellow beast.
To Central Park, I tell the driver,
a bit more rudely than I’d intended.
He drives in sacred silence, seeming
to understand my need for a reprieve.
Then I’m crossing the hallowed portal,
oak leaves swaying gently overhead,
a robin hopping across a pristine stretch
of luscious green grass.
I lower myself onto a bench
and close my eyes, inhaling, exhaling,
gently, rhythmically as a cool breeze
lifts the hair from my aching neck
and plants a kiss on my skin.
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About the Author
Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio, teaches English for Clark State College, and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including Calliope, North of Oxford, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side and This is Life, are available on Amazon. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling and never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). Arvilla’s favorite quote in the whole word is: “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” ~ Henry David Thoreau. To learn more, visit her website: https://soulpoetry7.com/
