by Subhaga Crystal Bacon
The time has changed along with the season
pushed up a day due to Leap Year. Mornings,
though I sleep with a black padded mask
inside room darkening shades, the sun slants
through the uncut branches of Ponderosa Pine—
ponderous in itself, higher than the house
and brushing with dangerous intimacy
its roof; if fire comes, it’s a bridge.
Today, though, it filters the seventh hour light
at eight o’clock. It’s neither early nor late,
although that’s relative—what is there to do?
My calendar says the day is empty, all the entries
in red, which means they’re tentative.
Still, the dog wants her walk, no matter
the actual time. Actual in my body. Or actual
on a clock. What does it matter? Naked aspens
outline the edge of the yard, the orchard fence,
the pale trail over last year’s leaves and grasses
up and up into nothing but sky. I’m game,
not that I have a choice. The sunlight hides
itself, once I’m out and about, behind clouds.
It’s as if it’s saying, your life is of no matter
to me. Go on. Follow your shadow I’ve made.
::
Subhaga Crystal Bacon (they/them) is the author of four collections of poetry including most recently the Isabella Gardner Award-winning Transitory (2023), from BOA Editions, a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award for Transgender Poetry in 2024, and Surrender of Water in Hidden Places (2023), winner of the Red Flag Poetry Chapbook Prize, recently released in a second edition. They are a teaching artist in schools and libraries as well as working with private students individually and in groups. A Queer elder, they live in rural northcentral Washington on unceded Methow land.
Image: Art Lasovsky
ID: pine tree branch.
Psaltery & Lyre 