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World Light

 

We watch the seventh episode—I’m buffered. People

on the screen inhabit the room, continue my thinking. I

 

step out onto the deck, the dark. The unequivocal snow.

I could be shocked and traumatized, but not killed off mid-

 

plot—I’d have to survive till the season wraps, at least.

I watch my breath curl into cold, enfold the falling flakes;

 

picture the two of us in bed, midnight quiet as rime.

You’re rolling the flannel blanket between your thumb

 

and index finger like an infant in his crib. I’m reading to you—

a Nordic story. Same thick book I’ve been reading to you

 

for years. You know it’s about a poet but you never remember

his name. Enough to hear my voice and feel my foot against

 

your calf. I wriggle and puff the blanket up; you grunt

and flatten it back, complain that I am letting in the cold.

 

Maybe it’s so. We’ve generated rituals—soft drugless soporifics.

 

—These might be signs as well by which we’ll recognize each other

in a deeper future sleep: There is no light where that is, so we’re eyeless




Elana Wolff