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The Lights Went Out
by Angela CottermanOh Memphis, I remember you, a prince
of a city in that dark August night.
You took off your cloak and covered us with
it, so that even our hands couldn't make
out the shapes of our hearts in your blacked-out
city. Our hands were like spiders in fugue
with the weather--for every degree
the humidity rose, ours found an inch
to go higher. But it wasn't enough, I
see. The shade of that night stands purple,
lit by the sea and the sunrise to come.
So, Tennessee town, with your power grid
full, your heat was too dark for our fingers
to sleep--under your cloak, we surrendered. 05/19/2010 Posted on 05/20/2010
Copyright © 2024 Angela Cotterman
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 05/20/10 at 02:51 PM What a great portrait. It almost makes me think I missed something the last time I was there. Nice work. |
| Posted by Max Bouillet on 05/21/10 at 02:07 AM I like the way you use hands in this piece. You mix them with the weather and show your movement with them. This is a sweltering piece that leaves you hot and humid with a darkened Memphis skyline. Great read. |
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