5 February 2009 | Vol. 8, No. 4
Ordinary Morning Light
The weeping women cause a scene at the post office.
No one stares,
exactly, but no kindness is shown. No door is held open as they struggle to exit.
They are the loneliness of common ache. But there is always light,
eventually. Like now.
See them walk into the sacristy of soft rain
in the parking lot. Gray air bracelets
their bodies' angled spaces. Moisture settles
over them like a practiced kiss. Their rotting, black wings rustle
back to life. Slick,
just born, their legs hold, feet clutch pebbles in a pattern so far from line
it is nearly
One thinks of an empty
house with open windows.
The other of new grass.
One remembers the lake in storm. Clear spring water filling it, even then.
About the author:
Shannon Amidon's poems have appeared in CutThroat, A Journal for the Arts; Runes, a Review of Poetry; Willow Springs; RATTLE, Poetry for the 21st Century; Memorious; storySouth; and elsewhere. She was awarded honorable mention in the 2008 Comstock Review chapbook contest and her manuscript, The Garden After, was one of three finalists for the 2008 Perugia Press Prize. A member of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers, she lives in Hilo, Hawai'i (on the Big Island) with her husband and infant son.
For further reading:
See the complete list of work by Shannon Amidon at 42opus. Browse the contents of 42opus Vol. 8, No. 4, where "Ordinary Morning Light" ran on February 5, 2009. List other work with these same labels: poetry.