Here at the Light Emporium we sell light.
Bottles of light.
Fluorescent lights and
streetlights and the light that falls
across the faces of your neighborhood buildings
at seven a.m. on a large march early spring
Purple and Green. Red and Black.
White lights — the ones you get when a car
is catapulting towards you at forty five miles
an hour. The near-death light. The DMT light.
All the ones that you can imagine — here: in little
glass vessels. Organized with the Dewey
Decimal System. 423 if you want to learn the language of
light. 700s to master the art of it. And 900: the history
of light, from the moment it was separated from
Buy them. Eat them. Stir them into your
morning coffee. Inject them straight into your
veins. Do you want to become the light? Here,
come to the Light Emporium. Where our sole
purpose is to give you everything
that takes away the dark corners that
keep you awake at night.
a stray dog paced up and down a back alley one night,
howling at the moon.
5 stories up, a woman blocked out the sound of an incessantly crying child and tilted her head to the sky.
the cheap 1970s light fixture ignited a slow warmth beneath her skin as the frayed red edges of a thin polyester throw tickled the back of her arm.
the dog hollered once more, the child screamed, and the ceiling fan in the hall hummed as if it were about to take flight—it never stopped.
the woman put up her feet and swore she could taste seasalt on the tip of her tongue. closing her eyes, she silently wished that her lover would never come home.