Poetry by David L. White
The sky is half-forgotten light, a hollow
blue brimming with what remains of day.
Somewhere, a peach skin sinks beneath dishwater.
A breeze moves through the torn screen, carrying
laughter. The neighbors are boiling onions.
I read beneath the pecan tree, cracked shells
dust my fingers. There are stories in the meat —
some bitter, some soft. My father said the
earth gives you what you ask for, but the
asking is never simple. He knew how to split
a pecan with his teeth and find sweetness or stone.
But evening has its own desires.
A window turns blue. Somewhere, a child’s toy repeats
hello, hello in different languages.
The light above the garage flickers on, then off.
The sensor reads everything.
Across the street, a boy rides his bike in loops,
silver spokes catching the last spill of sunlight.
Inside, someone hums. The kitchen fills with
the whiskey smell of browned butter. We are
made by what we eat and what we smell —
the onions, the bacon, the bright bite of lemon.
And yet, the sky refuses to close.
A darkness that doesn’t darken, a light
that won’t commit. The streetlamp blinks,
holding both day and night. The sensor forgets.
The sky forgets. Finches and Phoebes roost
beneath the eaves. Silver spokes glitter.
A breeze moves through the screen.
Salt. Smoke. The husk of a laugh.
The crickets begin counting. The street lamp
clicks again, stays on a moment too long.
Then darkness — or whatever we call it
when the sky refuses to close.
David L. White currently teaches English and creative writing in Tempe, Arizona. His poems
have appeared in Salamander, Thrush Poetry Journal, PRISM international, Potomac Review,
Sierra Nevada Review, and elsewhere.
A native of Arizona, David lives in the desert southwest with his wife, daughter, and his faithful
dog, Frodo.
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