There’s a hole with light streaming out of it. Somebody left the light on. You search for a switch, but there’s just black dirt around the hole, with light shooting up from it, shooting up and everywhere, loose, wasted. Your grandfather always reminded you to turn out the lights when you left a room, even unplug things, all to save energy. Save money too. Somebody’s electric bill’s gonna be extreme.
You finally decide to stop up the hole somehow. There’s no cover, so you take off your shirt, but the light goes right through it. You take off your pants. The light is dimmer, but no less intense. Your socks and underwear go next, but only keep the light down for a few minutes before all your clothes disintegrate. You lie down on top of the light, blocking most of it. You can feel the light sparkling off your naked torso. It’s warm, mildly irritating.
You finally roll off the light, resigned to its presence. That’s when you notice the dark hole in your torso where you tried to keep the light in.
(First printed in the author’s chapbook, screaming)
John Reinhart is an arsonist, father of three, and poet. He is a Frequent Contributor at the Songs of Eretz Poetry Review and recipient of the 2016 Horror Writers Association Dark Poetry Scholarship. His work has been nominated for multiple Rhysling and Dwarf Stars Awards. To date, he has penned five collections of poetry. Find his work at http://home.hampshire.edu/~jcr00/reinhart.html and @JReinhartPoet
Lonesome October Lit 