POEM BY BRIT WASHBURN
PHOTO BY MANUELA THAMES
Clarity
And just like that, it’s gone
again—the word on the tip
of your tongue, the thought,
the name, the face, the time,
the energy you’d summoned
for a moment, which made everything
make sense—
The word:
blank, the thought: blank, the name:
blank, the face: blank,
the time, the energy—all
elusive now, as if dreamt,
irretrievable,
though you go back
to bed, hoping the scent
of the sheets, the tilt
of your head, the darkness
itself might trigger a re-
collection—
It sounded
like water. It meant
something. You called it
yours. His eyes were
penetrating. The night was
long. You were not
tired.
