The Eavesdropper
A lighthouse stands alone in the distance,
a dark stone skeleton seeped in
powdered salt.
Weathered, blackened bars line its beacon—
burning from the lamp revolving
behind them,
burning like the bars of a jail cell,
burning like bones
that have lived for too long.
A gelatin photo gifted me when I was
a young girl
of a Massachusetts beach littered
with gray-toned parasols,
a stone lighthouse
and its bright white beacon.
A beacon—
like bright blue irises
burning through a door
cracked open,
the bars of childhood’s personal jail cell.
I stand in the dark hallway,
irises burning bright blue.
My bones are thick
and tired,
like stones that have lived
for too long.
