I’d like to talk to sunlight, as it talks to me,
but I don’t speak its language.
When light slows down, it thickens like
bitter marmalade and stains the wall.
I half close my eyes in the last flash as it
disappears behind the houses across the street,
and nudge my pen saying, “Write another line.
Tell the orange glass bauble in the window,
‘Let the light shine in and keep it. Bottle up
brightness for me.’ Sometimes, after dark
this handmade paper like November, bleached
and covered with flecks of dried blossoms,
and these blue words, tiny dedicated ocean,
are beach and sunrise, my own awakening.
Dawn McDuffie’s poems explore the landscape of Detroit and an inner world of memory, imagination and dreams. She’s published four chapbooks: Carmina Detroit, Bulky Pick Up Day, Flag Day in Detroit, and most recently, Happenstance and Miracles.