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The Lamp Post
There was a lamp post, just one,
in the middle of a field at night—
no road leading to it,
no fence surrounding it,
just light standing there
like a question no one asked,
glowing for no one.
The ache in my chest opened wide
when I saw it—
a hollow, bottomless thing,
like longing without direction,
and I fell in.
I thought:
If that’s the light, then I must be lost
in the outer darkness,
and didn’t even try
to move toward it.
Sleep claimed me for nearly a week,
dragged under by a gravity
no one else could feel.
Until one day a song
on a distant radio broke through—
The Eggplant That Ate Chicago.
It was so ludicrous
I snort-laughed—once—
and the dark cracked slightly,
just enough for air.
Then I unwound my grave shroud
and breathed.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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