Liz Jacoby
When the Lights go out
it is an exercise– staring into the past
resting the head on something immovable like this old and red, wooden chair
allowing the eyes to acclimate to blanketing hues of elapsed light
born dozens of centuries ago
more orbs become detectible the longer the stillness
each matchless
frequent fluttering illusions
unmistakably visible antediluvians
remapping theories of what it means to be
on this mid-nineteenth century farmhouse porch
nestled in pastoral land of ancestors
mid-May, Hagaman, Illinois
Bio
Liz Jacoby lives in southeast Michigan, but her heart is in southern Illinois. She has been recently published in Tipton Poetry Journal, The Vehicle, and Transom.