Pink Light (2021)
My therapist’s armchair creaks. Tell me: What is it about hope that feels so challenging? I look past the tower of books about loss and out the window, remembering last night’s fast traffic on Forest Ave, you standing in the intersection to photograph the blurred half-moon above that big, loud, exuberant lighted sign. HOPEFUL. The crumpled mask tumbling from the back pocket of your jeans. The kissably soft sunset air. Crickets singing at my feet. The sky so many sweet feathers of gold, pink, lavender above us. How I tried then to pull you toward the crumbling curb. Come on. Get out of there. It isn’t safe.
Kate Horowitz (she/they) is a poet, essayist, and science writer in Maine. Her work can be found in tiny zines and national publications, and on tarot cards, matchboxes, and the airwaves. Find her on Twitter @delight_monger, on Instagram @kate_swriting, and at katehorowitz.net.
