by Robin Ivey
One day I’ll look up at that starry night,
and he’ll look back at me:
with twice as many moons than usual.
Without a sun who rises purely to scare away what had been darkened,
but with a night who shrinks away into her light.
Beyond in which friends of pure opposites
those who couldn’t have less in common
than a firefly and a flame.
Yet, both who burn bright,
both who have been doused,
snuffed,
stifled and put out.
Below that night sky,
I drop my head between my knees,
hands pushed together into a prayer.
A covet for something—or nothing—to betide.
Pegasus 