The almost-neon sheen of moss
spreading like a stain on
the ash tree’s grooved bark,
the hammock’s frayed rope
to which the finches return,
trailing silk to their nests,
but mostly the quiet
of a neighbor’s house, white
drapes billowing, bring back
those silences I moved in
as a child, a shadow slinking
through empty rooms.
Dust motes tunneled light above
the cold floor where, belly-down
I sprawled, goose feather in hand.
If I lay there long enough,
if I brushed the feather
on a fixed spot on the pebble-
washed floor, how long before
I’d make a dent? The point
is not that when night fell
there was barely a scratch. The point
is how, armed with a feather,
I believed I could make a mark.
from What Happens is NeitherFind more by Angela Narciso Torres at the library
Copyright © 2021 Angela Narciso Torres
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.