by Jane Flint
When power burns
through all within its path
its glow transfers
to the contours
of its kindling.
Ghosts guide us in the darkness.
Darkness walks on tiptoe
ready to take flight
above
the sleeping bodies
of the young.
The whispering of paper
at the pencil’s footsteps
words heaved
and retched against the rocks
wake the dead.
They sing for us
from their salt lanterns
at the bottom of the sea.
Jane Flint’s work has appeared in Atticus Review, The Cape Rock, The Citron Review, Dunes Review, Oracle Fine Arts Review, Pisgah Review, and WomenArts Quarterly. She is a somatic coach and has her master’s degree in human development from Pacific Oaks College.
Hawaii Pacific Review 