Dark Light


by Justin Rigamonti

The power’s out when we arrive,
so our greeting is the tip-tap

of paws in the stairwell,
the flap of ears

but no visible dog. We know
she’s there despite her

formlessness. We light
a platter of candles and she

becomes a rosy crescent
moon in your lap.

We shower in the flickering dark.
At two am, in the nothingness

of our bedroom, I make a silent
film about the afterlife

with no images. The bed betrays
me only once, a single creak,

as I rise to catch the year’s last
lunar eclipse, itself

eclipsed by clouds. Workers
out there in the pitch

toiling away with wires under
a strange omen. When I return

the dog has gone diagonal
across my absence

like a shooting star.

Photo courtesy of Suad Kamardeen
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