THE CANDLE

we do not hold the lantern high‐‐
it sits, covert
low in the prow
bright enough to see, not enough to be found

in the quiet it casts
our reflections, our light shows

us to ourselves
our selves slicing the stars
tearing the sky to ripples

there, then, we sat
smugglers without a hold

no chest but our chests. our craft
carries only our selves
and a light

 

 

About the Author: F. W. Barteldes received his MA in Literature from Colorado State University in 2010. His poetry has previously appeared in Paper Nautilus, Stoneboat, and Prism Review. He can be reached at @bilbyiv.