A hospital nurse died alone in this house
a century ago.
She smoked cigarettes on the staircase,
stained carpet with ash.
I assume she misses admiring amber
streetlights out the windows,
the gatherings of gnats around glass bulbs,
the miniscule buzzing: a prayer on the verge of epiphany.
All night I wonder
if I’m gentle enough to the fallen leaves I’ve stepped on.
I scratch at scabs on my knees and knuckles,
not healing.
- Meet the Author
- Latest Posts
Lucas Dean Clark (he/him) is attending Bowling Green State for an MFA degree in Creative Writing. He writes about his dreams often and has a reoccurring nightmare where he is chased by black-haired dogs. He also walks in the woods like a ghost.
This is fantastic!
I could use more of Lucas’s writings in my life.
Very interesting poem