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Black volcanic rock (obsidian)

One Poem by Erin Rodoni

Obsidian

Even the dark is endangered now, but it once ran wild
in my own backyard. It arrowed up from soil,

               lifting shadows of grass blades into scales and fur
               and teeth. Then larger things, the drape of willow trees

into feathered wings, a crouching body from hills
that hid the sun. Shapeshifter with a spine of ridgeline,

               crest of cypress, antlers of weathervane and chimney.
               Pantherine, cetacean, its heft like sand

against the house, pressing hard the panes.
When it brushed against my bedroom

               window, it made a sound like glass
               on glass.

\\

Hunted by light trespass and clutter, cornered
at the deadend of alleys—maybe you’ve been

               taught the dark is dangerous
               to approach, but as a girl I used to

feed it shadows from my palm.
It came to me without a face,

               the way I imagined my future
               lovers coming to my window, leaving me

widowed. The dark, an obsidian steed I could ride
all the way to wave-knapped cliffs

               where love gives way
               to grief.

//

There is pleasure now in naming
the things that will outlast us. See

               how under, between, below, the dark
               bides its time? It will claim the shapes

of our glass abandonments
as soon as the lights

               go out inside.

\\

Would you believe me if I told you
I sometimes rode the dark alone, my shadow

               fused to its molten cold? Didn’t you, my future,
               join me once? Link your arms around my waist

and hold on tight? Obsidian delivered us
to a beach of black glass, black water

               shattering against ebony cliffs. And then
               a stillness fell like sand hushing through an hour

glass. Seals surfaced starglazed silence, ripples
knapped of starklight. Didn’t we slip

               out of our skins and into silken algae
               as if into dark’s own pelt? My future

children floated somewhere in the vast
plane of past and potential, within me

               or without. If I imagined them at all,
               I imagined them small

against a night like this.

     

       

   

Erin RodoniErin Rodoni is the author of And If the Woods Carry You (SIR Press, 2021), Body, in Good Light (Sixteen Rivers Press, 2017), and A Landscape for Loss (NFSPS Press, 2017). She won the 2017 Montreal International Poetry Prize, and her poems have appeared in journals such as Blackbird, Poetry Northwest, and Fairy Tale Review. She teaches and mentors through the Writing Salon.

Header photo by Kavic.C, courtesy Shutterstock.