aaron magloire / poem

Darkening

Sheep Point Cove

November’s best efforts have failed: the black-bodied ducks

cannot be coaxed from the lilt of the Atlantic. Let our light be

skeletal if it must be skeletal, they seem to say.

(Though of course they say nothing at all; they just float.)

Closest to the sea, rust, or what looks like rust, coats

the crag edges above the yellow underpass.

Beyond that—night’s taut crossbow.

The world outruns what it can of itself, then freezes over. 

Someone speaks above the wind’s static tenor.

Is there a way out of here? Through the tunnel

is another tunnel, helmeted by sky, sky bloated by time, time

brimming with a footfall of color. Just out of reach,

bobbing metronomic with the surf,

sea foam clumps like heads of cauliflower.

For best mobile viewing, choose "request desktop version" in the address bar (ios) or three dots in the top right corner (Android).

---

Aaron Magloire is an emerging writer from Queens, New York, and a current MFA candidate in playwriting at the Yale School of Drama. Aaron's work has appeared in Boston Review, the 2021 Best New Poets anthology, and elsewhere.