by Kristine Ong Muslim

This loneliness is obviously misplaced,
pure as a body saddled with sentience.

Its static is pre-arranged. Its breath, foggy.
It stalks the way light engulfs an unlit spot.

I wait for it to lose its steam, to catch its
reflection on the mirror by the bathroom sink.

I am sure it will be surprised by its stillness.
I am sure it is wondering where that dull ache lives.

Dark Clocks

Editor’s Note on Dark Clocks:

An early version of “Dark Clocks” first appeared in Rougarou.