Dark Light

Not the Same Day

by Fatima Elkalay

She who holds the ink of night till dawn 
can read between the lies
the lip of morning
and the shadow
slipped away
with a tilted shoulder,
spitting no shame
under its blanket
all knives stab.

She who keeps the door ajar
for a token of light
to roll across her threshold
who unpries cold fingers of lack
clenched round her babies,
knows patience
is a portrait that never dries.

And he who runs after his shadow
until it engulfs him,
who carries his bed on his back,
and her scented pillow
buttons his light to a threadbare collar,
slaughters his lambs in his mouth.

He who walks beneath a cloud of his making
and is remembered by its rain—
looks back and sees

a deep gash filled with void
and tiny footprints
too large
to hold his pocket.
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