by Brandon Amico
The moon is a boat that comes by, an ark
with no room for me. Necessity and her friends fill its hull.
When you squint at a star it thins, sharpens. A turned blade
in day disappears into reflection. I sleep with my throat on the sand.
The sun is triumphant again.
Dawn spills above me, stretching across the horizon saying
this is simply blue, it has never been anything but blue.
The broken light on the chandelier.
The mellifluous dark nestled around
it; lack of electric hum. The broken light
on the chandelier that I pray to. It holds
still and sure, and I think about volcanoes
that will hurl new earth
into the seas, the planet’s core brief
and defensive in its moments
of exposure. The broken light
on the chandelier in my parents’
kitchen that I pray to, until one
day when I find it glowing
miraculously. And all the peace
goes with it. And all the lightness
Brandon Amico is from Manchester, NH. His poems have appeared in Thrush Poetry Journal, Muzzle, Amethyst Arsenic, elimae, and others. He is the 2012 recipient of the Richard M. Ford Award for poetry. Brandon is a Poetry Editor at the online literary magazine Swarm. Visit him at http://www.brandonamico.com.