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Contents Page: July 1, 2011, vol 7 no 2

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Katey Nixon


The Edge of Shadow

Her words tumble out the story, a waterfall of emotion into my still pool. "The doctor is angry. When I ran out of the hospital, I was frightened, not in my right mind, how could I be responsible?"

Her eyes flicker with back-story.

A corner, a car,
screech of brakes.
A deliberate accident?

Yes, the doctor is angry with her. Someone is angry with me too, but I cannot say this. Instead, I notice the way a shaft of light plays on her face edged by her dark hair. Heartbeat. My concentration wavers as the fascination with light plays me in a tug and release.

anchor to surface
light floats
upon shadows depths

I make another appointment, an excuse. Outside, it is a cobalt winter afternoon. I walk, bare forearms, comforted by the chill air. I notice reflections everywhere. Glinting metal on parked cars, long, smooth highlights on iron railings; a mother's mock leather coat, dull sheen lifted to high gloss. Bright triangles of sun on the buggy's plastic rain guard dance in patterns.

Later, falling asleep, I think of her, feel her darkness pulling me into mine, and realize shadow is at our edges; our definition.

the edges
of light


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