Times Light Kept Going
In my childhood bedroom,
there is indirect sunlight
through upturned blinds.
From under my parents’ closed door,
salt-lamp-orange fluoresces on
carpet six inches out, then stops.
One half of the downstairs
in an Iowa City townhouse
glows pink, other half blue.
Downtown, there is a house
and its upper level
is constantly in moonlight.
A corner room in Chicago
opens up to sodium vapor,
deep yellows hit pavement.
From the interstate at midnight
moonlight glints half-
frozen water in the median.
In Tennessee, a barn’s
windows face east, bleak
light breaks glass.
A high school science
lab bears alkali, potassium
dies in pink and purple.
TV shines indeterminate
around a corner wall in a Texas brick home
to where it yields dark.
In my sister’s bedroom,
moonlight cuts through blinds,
stripes slate-blue into shadows.
From a backyard, Christmas
lights illuminate from the inside,
out; tiny glowing.
In Wisconsin, a neon sign glares
into a koi pond and downwards,
through basement windows.
The red of an alarm clock glows
in my brother’s old bedroom
when my mother sleeps there.
Somewhere, a room is almost in complete
darkness, except for a smoke
detector’s yellow light.
Ellie Zupancic is an interdisciplinary artist and emerging poet. She lives in Iowa City where she studies English & creative writing and serves as the Editor-in-Chief of Fools Magazine. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Canvas Literary Journal, The Apprentice Writer, Ink Lit Mag, Fools Magazine, and Dream Pop Journal. Find her Twitter @misszupancic.