Dark and Light
Roseann St. Aubin
The light over the old oven
is not strong enough
for her to read by.
It is 3 a.m. and
she is at the table that is
piled with fat tomatoes,
round as rosary beads.
She prays.
Soft is her Hail Mary.
Sharp are the shadows
that cut the kitchen
like a cake of dark and light.
If she could sleep this
would also be her dream.
One where she is caught
between what must be
and what she wants.
A dream where her mother visits,
sits near her at the table,
but does not speak.
There would be tomatoes but
then there would also be a knife
its edge gleaming in the light.