Evenings when the children

are fast asleep and day begins

its shading to dusk,


from the shelter of our

screened porch we watch

their brief


transformations: small orbs

blinking like unintelligible signals

above the groundcover


then vanishing, only

to appear somewhere else:

beneath, say, the arms


of the ornamental pear

or over by the broken gate

no one can enter,


their cold light

strange proclamations of love

or hunger, faint sparks


pricking the darkness

filled with its tense

promise of rain, invisible clouds


holding it in.

Who really knows

another, what each


is capable of

if the moment is ripe?

When day comes and we


can no longer see them

they are there still,

unaccounted for


in the outer all-encompassing light.







Poet and playwright Jennifer O’Grady is the author of White (Mid-List Press First Series Award for Poetry). Her poems have appeared in Harper’s, The New Republic, The Writer’s Almanac, The Yale Review, Poetry, Poetry Daily and numerous other places. Her plays have been featured or are forthcoming in The Best Stage Monologues for Women 2014 (Smith and Kraus), Best Contemporary Monologues for Women 18-35 (Applause Theatre & Cinema Books), and The Best Ten-Minute Plays 2016 (Smith and Kraus).

Issue #57 April 2016
Share This