Kristin Eade


In the house of my body
a whole room is unlit.
No light switch, no electrical,
not even a window
for letting the moon’s soft blush
trespass. Sometimes I go in
to see if anything’s there.
Only dust-sugared cobwebs
brushing my blind hands. Only
a chill as I move
into blackness.
Only my breath
in vacuum-sealed silence.
Don’t these things come with cribs,
I think. My foot doesn’t kick a thing.

I imagine lighting the room
with “I have baby fever”—
a wood stove’s glutted glow.
“I want four”—the romp of a flame
atop a fresh candle.
“My clock is ticking”—
a pyre.

As I try out each light source,
imagining the neatly painted walls
and glossy hard wood floors
and stately crown molding that’s
probably there, I realize:
these are the lit rooms
of other women.
“Why not?” is a question
people try to light my room with, incomprehension
the flashlight’s beam.
But you can get used to darkness
the same way you get used to light.

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