Ongoing
There is always a tiny hole
the thin green line left by the setting sun
on the sill of the window
left open
Consider the horizon’s lids —
glossy, gleaming
lightly separating
each moist, parodying the other
twins in slow conversation
a kiss prolonged
perched on the verge
bending over a sleeping child
peering into those thick lashes
with a light to see if she’s really sleeping—
The voice may stop singing after,
but the poem, never
Jill Pearlman is a writer and poet based in Providence, RI. She has published in Salamander, Frequency Anthology, Soul-Lit, Crosswinds and others. She writes a blog about ecstasy, art and aesthetics in wartime at jillpearlman.com
