Pink Light (2021)
My therapist’s armchair creaks. Tell me: What is it
about hope that feels so challenging?
I look past the tower of books about loss
and out the window, remembering
last night’s fast traffic on Forest Ave,
you standing in the intersection
the blurred half-moon
above that big, loud, exuberant
lighted sign. HOPEFUL.
The crumpled mask tumbling
from the back pocket of your jeans.
The kissably soft sunset air. Crickets singing
at my feet. The sky so many sweet feathers
of gold, pink, lavender above us.
How I tried then to pull you
toward the crumbling curb. Come on.
Get out of there. It isn’t safe.
Kate Horowitz is a poet, essayist, and science writer in Maine. Her poems have appeared in journals including Rogue Agent, Monstering, SIREN, Doubleback Review, and Yes Poetry; on matchboxes; and in anthologies of poems on pop culture, tarot cards, and inanimate objects. You can find her online at thingswrittendown.com, on Twitter @delight_monger, and on Instagram @kate_swriting. Kate likes moss and rain and dogs on the beach and long walks at night. She lives by the sea.
Uncovered logs from the distant past and the future beyond.