The speed of dark
I pour maple syrup into yogurt and swirl;
the amber ribbon stretches
like a frozen waterfall
from bottle to bowl
and spirals into creamy oblivion—
Many centuries pass.
I peg unpeg peg, three sizes of socks;
they droop comatose
like sailors on a penny-hang.
Only my wits flap—
the scene unchanged though ice caps
Melt. Freeze. Melt.
I chop shiny apples and taut dark plums
in seven-year shifts
like sleeping cicadas.
The blade is keen
but my brain-edge dulls, needs grit
to sharpen it.
Just let me be to swirl, peg, chop!
Don’t rupture my flow
with your turbine whine,
your bicker and snot,
your kicking like cornered foals.
O darkness, come!
On this black plain that stretches bare
to all horizons
like a lake at night,
far behind me are three small trees—
twisted from the foil into trunks and limbs;
they orient me.
Days melt into their croques monsieur
years fly past
like hungry bats
but not the dark hours, the creeping minutes.
The clock swings to life like a metronome;
Now they sleep.
Audrey Molloy was born in Ireland and spent her formative years in rural Wexford. She practiced optometry in Dublin before itchy feet led her to Sydney, where she works as a medical writer and editor. Her work has appeared in Australian Poetry Journal, Offset Arts Journal, F(r)iction Literary Journal (USA), The Galway Review, and various poetry anthologies. Audrey was shortlisted for the Over The Edge New Writer of the Year 2016. She blogs from time to time at www.audreymolloy.com.
Deep Water Literary Journal
2017 - Issue 1 - February