Here’s what he learned
about darkness:
it’s not absence.
It’s full
and thick
as stone.
In darkness,
you try to seal
your breath
behind your lips.
You fear
you might lose it,
as you’re losing
your body
and your mind.
Everything
you almost touch
crumbles.
Space is endlessly
confined.
If you stay still
for too long,
the darkness
will swell
like a spider bite
and motion
will go numb.
If you stay silent,
you’ll hear
the other noises:
the oily trickling
of time,
the slosh
of the earth’s rotation,
the echo
of an echo
as it travels through
the darkness,
which is not a void
but a forest
where slick branches
reach to stroke you
into submission.
Don’t be fooled:
darkness
isn’t lonely.
It is a fracture
within loneliness,
a crowd
of faceless strangers
lurking from
the cracks.
They would like
to hold you still.
They would like
to carve you down
to the brightness
of your bones.
Annie Przypyszny is a student at American University, majoring in Creative Writing. She is also the assistant poetry editor for The Adirondack Review. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in 30 North, The Oakland Arts Review, Pacifica Literary Review, ANGLES, North Dakota Quarterly, Ponder Review, and elsewhere.