November 21, 2012

Tyler Bigney

A Night in June

I am sitting by the open window
in my parents' basement, inhaling
June's warm breeze, listening to
the June bugs bang against the screen,
wanting in, wanting light. We all
strive for the light, some of us will
even die for it. Tonight I am
smothered in darkness. I am pressing
my hand to where my heart
is supposed to be, feeling for
my feelings. Out across the Strait
the lights of Prince Edward Island
glow in and out. The coyotes howl.
Everything in its place, working
the way it's supposed to, but
sometimes that's still not enough.


I was thirteen when I fell in love
for the first time:

A Romanian gymnast
in a blue leotard,
the color of sky
held tight in all
the good places.

Pale, her blue eyes,
the shape of almonds,
her skin, I imagine
the smell of honey,
or something greater

Her toes curled around
the balance beam,
and later, how she
swung, careening
high to low to high
suspended for
a lifetime,
my mouth a circle
of wonderment,
my body, still,

the way a hummingbird hovers
the way people hold their breath
circling the top of a Ferris wheel,
the way time moves without you,
over you, like warm bath water,
waiting, for what feels like, your whole life.


Tyler Bigney lives in Nova Scotia. His work has appeared in Poetry New Zealand, The Meadow, Iodine, Neon, and Third Wednesday among others.

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