Sometimes, the Light

Here, eroded, sometimes the light
strikes each step of your memory to an odd
angle, a beamwind and pulls
you back into childhood
like a gator pulls a victim into dark
water. 

Here you pass crumbling brick houses,
hemlocks bare, and empty convents
as a spirit paths through menshaped
snow, the spirit
you know again
under the uncut hair of the willows—

so marvelous and dangerous to behold. 
If you crawled through the hole
in the wall you would die

or be happy forever
in the light's honeycomb-ice
waiting for you. 

—Judith Roney
 

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Judith Roney has created and taught writing workshops for adults challenged by mental illness in conjunction with the University of Central Florida’s Literary Arts Partnership. Her fiction, essays, and poetry have appeared in numerous publications.Field Guide for a Human was a 2015 finalist in the Gambling the Aisle chapbook contest. Her poetry collection, According to the Gospel of Haunted Women, received the 2015 Pioneer Prize. A memoir piece, “My Nickname was Frankenstein,” is nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She confesses to an obsession with the archaic and misunderstood, dead relatives, and collects vintage religious artifacts and creepy dolls. Currently she teaches poetry at the University of Central Florida, and is an assistant poetry editor for The Florida Review. More information can be found at www.judithroney.com