Nocturne for Dark Things

I do my finest listening in the dark.
My best friend has always been ink
and she lets me talk so much at night.

One of the marvels of my life—
an alphabet. A whole green and mossy
world can be made and remade

from just twenty-six dark curlicues.
Here’s more dark: sometimes birds sleep
tucked under a giraffe’s dusky armpit

and sometimes fungi fatten only at night.
When I was a kid, I used to worry over
so many bugs and moths slamming

into our windshield. My sons have never
known that concern, which is another kind
of worry. But dark marvels still bloom

and snick the soil, swim the oceans and air—
and even on the moon: wide, flat plains
called seas, lakes, marshes, and bays

named Joy, named Sorrow, named Hope,
named Nectar, named Softness, named Serpent,
named Stickiness, named Tranquility, named

Clouds, named Sleep, and my favorite—named Love.

 

[Purchase Issue 31 here.]

 

Aimee Nezhukumatathil is the New York Times bestselling author of two essay collections: Bite by Bite and World of Wonders. She serves as a firefly guide for Mississippi State Parks, and her forthcoming book of poems is Night Owl.

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Nocturne for Dark Things

Related Posts

Cover of book "Good Guys"

Holding On is Forever

MINDY MISENER
I turned on the TV, but the attempt to distract myself made me feel worse. I re-checked the curtains to make sure not even a sliver of the room would be visible from the outside. I felt both alone and watched. I was definitely starting to feel sick.

The Wall Climbers

AMAYA RANATUNGE
Back home, the salt arrives before the sea. It rides on the evening wind, settles in your pores, and clings to the stone walls of the fort. On some evenings, when the waves are rough enough, the salt-bitter perfume of the sea accompanies a loud orchestra

Book cover of The Fifth Year by Marlen Haushofer

Review: The Fifth Year by Marlen Haushofer

BRIANNA BEEHLER
When I was a child, I was afraid to go upstairs by myself at my grandparents’ house. At the top of the stairs was a print of Pablo Picasso’s 1937 painting, Weeping Woman’s Head with Handkerchief III, and the sight of the woman’s tears found their way into my dreams at night.