F. J. Bermann

Already Darkening

   from Moon Foxes II, oil on panel, Kelli Hoppmann, 2011


When you can’t sleep, you count the dragon hours,
count the visible stars, count the pages of books,
each leaf on a tree planted before you were born.
Soon enough, it will all fade into black, as long as

you can keep from counting the things you’d rather
not count but keep coming back to. Refuse to give them
a home and all will be well. There is no room inside
you for the monsters you collared and released.

What is it that whispers at the nape of your neck?
Leaves are already darkening, but your hair is redder
than a week ago. For you, it will always be summer:
a simmering blue sky, with your own personal moon

like a puddle of yellow paint where fallen leaves afloat
could almost be ghost moths risen from its pale glowing.

F. J. Bergmann is the poetry editor of Mobius: The Journal of Social Change (mobiusmagazine.com) and freelances as a copy editor and book designer. She lives in Wisconsin and fantasizes about tragedies on or near exoplanets. She was a Writers of the Future winner. Her work has appeared in Abyss & Apex, Analog, Asimov’s SF, and elsewhere in the alphabet. She has competed at National Poetry Slam with the Madison Urban Spoken Word slam team. While lacking academic literary qualifications, she is kind to those so encumbered. She used to work with horses. She thinks imagination can compensate for anything.