Shards of Light by Elizabeth Burk

Shards of Light

I have lunch with a younger friend
whose beard is turning to iron—
in compensation, his ponytail
grows longer. We talk and I wonder
if he had ever desired me. I try to keep
such narcissistic preoccupations
tucked away from my awareness,

but they glow now in the dim light
of this restaurant at noon,
that murky gray of a rainy day,
shards of light streaking oblique and harsh
through unwashed windows,
turning everything ashen and pasty.

The young waitress sashays back
and forth, appears to flaunt
her lithe body while I sit lumpy
on the booth banquette. I’ve lost height
from what used to be my waistline up—
the spine undoubtedly collapsing—
it feels like the table between us
is at the level of my chin. I squelch
the urge to ask for a booster seat.

I turn my attention back to my friend,
listen as he recounts his adventures
traversing the country solo
in his new minivan, realize his true desire
lies in his need to tell me his stories.
As for my need to feel desired,
I’m hoping that tiresome burden
will diminish with age—
will it bring mourning or relief?

*

Elizabeth Burk is a psychologist who divides her time between her native New York and a home and husband in southwest Louisiana. Her first full-length collection, Unmoored, was recently published by Texas Review Press (Nov 2024). She is the author of three previous collections: Learning to Love Louisiana, Louisiana Purchase and Duet—Poet & Photographer, a collaboration with her photographer husband. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies including Atlanta Review, Rattle, Naugatuck River Review, Louisiana Literature, Passager, Pithead Chapel, ONE ART, PANK, Museum of Americana, MER and elsewhere.