issue 24 > poetry > cabral

No matter how well-lit
all waiting rooms
are dark.

What reigns
a cloistered realm
cannot cross its threshold.

Nor reveal itself
through any crack or crevice
mitigating blindness.

Is the yearning of
the heart for light
a sign of the beyond?

Or is it simply an illusion
a prop for the soul
in bondage to its end?






Also by Astrid Cabral:

Ephemeral
Waiting Room
Bones or Stars
The Last Moment
Between Gardens
Hills and Mushrooms