Earth at Night

Did Mommy ever tell you
before your goodnight
kiss? her fingers
roaming your sweat-
damp bangs, baby
fine, cherub
did she ever bend low
till her necklace tapped
your chin, tiny
of your ear
cradling her blessed
brittle whisper, Darkness

came before the light. God
is Darkness.

And we are
the earth’s subconscious—
amber neurons winking
over Terra’s cranial
vault: part matte
and glossy, heaving
dewy black, subducted

plates rubbed raw at the sutures;
all for one more grind
round the axis, white Moon
watery sheets
across a landscape’s drunken slumber

where God gets his tabula rosa
where darkness gestates and forgets

Melissa Frederick teaches creative writing and literature in the MFA program at Rosemont College. She received her Master?s degree at Iowa State University and is working toward a PhD at Temple University. Her poetry and prose have appeared in numerous publications, including the Crab Orchard Review, DIAGRAM, The Cream City Review, Kalliope, and The Pedestal and is forthcoming in The Adirondack Review. She currently lives in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania.

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