My darkness is just charcoal sketches: swath of soybean field, rippling; the bent branch of an oak; burst milkweed pods on dried stalks. No smoke or ash or fog or blood or fray. Nothing torn asunder. A plum withers in a white bowl. Evening’s creased a little, wrinkled with fingerprints. It might expand if you could take a breath. Here is a sheet of paper, space for your pain. Here are two magic pennies, a clear wand filled with stars, a plastic dragon that fits in your palm. A silver box made of paper, a miniature glass globe. Here is a girl in a straw hat smiling between six bass on a stringer, the blurry black-and-white background stirred like sun on rushing water. Dream yourself into that childhood. I wish I could write your name on the back.

Bio: Kathleen McGookey