Gaslight by Liz Duff Young

tunneling back
worm, mole, me
what did he say?
then—that one perfect moment
trapped in the amber of imminent joy
convoluted phrases seemingly clear
as they fell from his lips
ambient warmth, veering to love
while I, inebriated worm,
lolled in dumb damp bliss.
wombed by his words
entombed, I felt lights pulse.
see, saw, see them there
yes, but am I not blind?
fetal mole claws flail for his sweet parole
tensing, past perfect present dead
searching for pearls drowned in the black
ink of his current ire.
the glow I know was there
misremembered now.
his eyes flash dark commands
mute, I swallow them all
doubting not him
but fragile worm-self.
light shrivels to dark
in pitch black silence
I conjure the ghost of flame
knowing he’ll snuff it out.

Leave a Reply