By Ruth Bavetta
The desert ends in a pit of light,
in their escape from dark.
They’ve pried the gas
from its place in the Periodic Table,
from the demon’s feet.
of multicolored tubing,
burns blisters in the sand.
I will wake the lilies under
the window. I will bite deeply
into the apple’s defenseless cheek.
I will follow the seagulls over
the waves as they etch the air
with their wings. I will not
be good. I will not be safe.
I will ride the tide as it goes out.
And when the man comes in the dark,
I will show him the family
silver’s shining secrets.
About the Author: Ruth Bavetta writes at a messy desk overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Her poems have appeared in Rattle, Nimrod, Tar River Review, North American Review and many other journals and anthologies. Her books are Fugitive Pigments (FutureCycle Press, 2013) Embers on the Stairs (Moontide Press, 2014,) Flour Water Salt (FutureCycle Press, 2016.) and No Longer at This Address (Aldritch Books 2017.) She likes the light on November afternoons, the music of Stravinsky, the smell of the ocean. She hates pretense, fundamentalism and sauerkraut.