I’ll Not Complain
I sit down for dinner and remember the mosquitos from June.
The itching and picking – never opening because
I knew how to shut you out in June.
The fruit on the table tastes like flowers, its waxy exterior stains my teeth.
Everyone at this table is blind to the dull ache of my spine.
The beating buzz is always present in my bones.
I knew how to ignore it when the sun was out, but now darkness arrives
on time and 4pm holds nothing except my dread – high and heavy.
You haven’t sat down at this table since the birds left and never came back for seconds.
I don’t miss the long days of June or the heat that swooned my vision.
I miss the blank stares from across the table when I kept swearing that I saw you.
It was just the sun – it is always just the sun blinding these eyes of mine.
self portrait in a lighthouse
I’m looking out to the sea
wondering how far it goes.
My feet glued to the damp wood
& the breeze is so cool, the hair
my arms stand tall.
People on boats hypnotized
by the light, it pokes through
The waves mock the movement
of pulse. I know I have been here
many times before, I recognize
the saltiness on my lips
from the air. I lick them.
The sea is too mesmerizing to sleep.
A small bed covered
in bright white sheets waits
Sydney Shaffer is a queer poet from Brooklyn, New York. She enjoys writing realistic poems that include magical images. When she is not writing, you can find Sydney snuggled with her cats, drinking a cup of coffee, and reading all the books she can!