In the gloaming, in the roiling night by Ruth Awad

In the gloaming, in the roiling night
Ruth Awad

The hurt returns as it always intended—it is tender
as the inside of my thighs, it is as blue, too. O windless,

           wingless sky, show me your empire of loneliness,
let me spring from the jaws of what tried to kill me.

Let me look at your face and see a heaven worth having, all
                      your sorry angels falling off a piano bench, laughing.

Do you burn because you remember darkness? Outside
the joy is clamoring. It is almost like the worst day of your life

                                 is ordinary for everyone else.