The black man who approached from the rear of the gathering at my father's burial looked to be one hundred years old. He was frail, but not bent. He walked haltingly, supported by two black ... [+]
Steve Denehan lives in Kildare, Ireland with his wife Eimear and daughter Robin. He is the author of two chapbooks and four poetry collections. "Winter Dark" is in Short Circuit #11, Short Édition's quarterly review.
I wake, creaking
the room is cold
the house is silent
the day waits
I tell myself to get up
the instruction is ignored
I tell myself to get up
on the count of ten
I count to ten
twice
lie there
on my back
in the only piece of warmth
for miles around
again, I count to ten
sit up, stand up
notice that I grunt now
in the sitting
in the standing
I walk to the bathroom
sore hip
sore knee
I open the door
the sound
quiet any other time
machinegun loud now
winter dark
warm feet
cold tiles
I fumble for the light switch
the flash
overloading my eyes
the bulb blows
with a small pop
winter dark, again
just one half second of light
time enough
to create
an entire universe
the room is cold
the house is silent
the day waits
I tell myself to get up
the instruction is ignored
I tell myself to get up
on the count of ten
I count to ten
twice
lie there
on my back
in the only piece of warmth
for miles around
again, I count to ten
sit up, stand up
notice that I grunt now
in the sitting
in the standing
I walk to the bathroom
sore hip
sore knee
I open the door
the sound
quiet any other time
machinegun loud now
winter dark
warm feet
cold tiles
I fumble for the light switch
the flash
overloading my eyes
the bulb blows
with a small pop
winter dark, again
just one half second of light
time enough
to create
an entire universe