portion of the artwork for Laura King's poetry

Laura King

is white. Lonely it wakes me
to seek its own attention. Glare of God
in the night light not night; the jets,
their distant roar and lights searching
for a landing in the distance, one
after the other, and another, no rest.
Why waken with nothing to say?
Snow on the lawn glares.
The neighbors’ dark rooms mock.
Even the cardinals sleep
with their song that will ring my ears
as soon as I fall asleep, so it’s not worth it.
It smells lonely, like snow.
I say it out loud.
Who is this I who speaks, hovering
on the sill? And I say I believe in God,
but God in the midnight? Here
there is nothing.
My room a bed, single pillow, thin sheet.
White walls, wood floor.
Brain, tangled as a star-chart.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 59 | Spring/Summer 2022