In the dark times, will there also be singing?
Yes. There will also be singing. About the dark times.
Bertolt Brecht

You’ve been thinking about the gold rim
of a priest’s robe, a glimpse of light caught
while turning the pages of a book
about ancient Egypt.

You’ve been traveling with a headlight
in the backyards and bedrooms
of a sunken city, somewhere near
the center of the Mediterranean sea.

You’ve been feeling with trembling
fingers the volatile blue of a porcelain
tea set from Sèvres, lips so close to tasting
the chilled line between frail and strong.

You’ve been imitating the precise hands
that seamlessly assembled the idea
of nature in a shallow dish, and learned
to pronounce ikebana.

You’ve been looking for beauty in the morning,
when the simple, oblique light invades the room,

you’ve been looking for beauty in the faces
of friends when they talked about beauty,

you’ve been looking for beauty when hatred
is somehow overcome by a passerby’s song,

you’ve been looking for beauty in the evening,
when all the trucks have passed and the boots
have stopped marching, and especially
when your breath finally melts
into the thickness of night.

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Marine Cornuet works at a small not-for-profit gallery in Brooklyn (NY) by day, and is a poet by night (and in the early morning). Her work can be found in Handsy Lit, Cactus Calamité, and Yellow Chair Review. Although her mother tongue is French, she mostly writes in English.

Photo credit:  Terri Malone