Dark at the Bottom
by Richard Spilman
They lie there waiting
in the dark
at the bottom of the stairs,
and you stop halfway,
your fear penumbral
like memory.
Too old for this, you curse
the burnt out light.
The thing you need
is only a step into the shadow.
Still, it feels like
going under.
You descend slowly,
ready at a whisper
to run,
find by touch what you need,
clutch it in both hands
and let the darkness
take you, like a child
at pier’s end,
after a long night
ablaze with summer storms,
whispering as he dips his feet
into the swells.
by Richard Spilman
The betta bristles at his image in
the mirror I hold to the glass.
Bloodrush brightens those
brilliant ribbons of red and green.
Now and again he feints,
already so used to the curve
of the glass as to have lost
the savage instincts of freedom.
Even this show wearies him;
his pennants falter and, spent,
he sinks to the bottom to hang
dull above the snails like a wet leaf.
____________________________
Richard Spilman is the author of a book of poetry, In the Night
Speaking, and of a chapbook, Suspension. He was born and raised
in Normal, Illinois, and has since lived all over the country, coming
to rest for a while in Wichita, Kansas.
◄ Previous page Apple Valley Review, Fall 2013 Next page ►
They lie there waiting
in the dark
at the bottom of the stairs,
and you stop halfway,
your fear penumbral
like memory.
Too old for this, you curse
the burnt out light.
The thing you need
is only a step into the shadow.
Still, it feels like
going under.
You descend slowly,
ready at a whisper
to run,
find by touch what you need,
clutch it in both hands
and let the darkness
take you, like a child
at pier’s end,
after a long night
ablaze with summer storms,
whispering as he dips his feet
into the swells.
by Richard Spilman
The betta bristles at his image in
the mirror I hold to the glass.
Bloodrush brightens those
brilliant ribbons of red and green.
Now and again he feints,
already so used to the curve
of the glass as to have lost
the savage instincts of freedom.
Even this show wearies him;
his pennants falter and, spent,
he sinks to the bottom to hang
dull above the snails like a wet leaf.
____________________________
Richard Spilman is the author of a book of poetry, In the Night
Speaking, and of a chapbook, Suspension. He was born and raised
in Normal, Illinois, and has since lived all over the country, coming
to rest for a while in Wichita, Kansas.
◄ Previous page Apple Valley Review, Fall 2013 Next page ►
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Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary
Literature
ISSN 1931-3888
Volume 8, Number 2
(Fall 2013)
Copyright © 2013
by Leah Browning, Editor.
All future rights to material
published in the Apple
Valley Review are retained
by the individual authors
and artists.
www.applevalleyreview.com
A Journal of Contemporary
Literature
ISSN 1931-3888
Volume 8, Number 2
(Fall 2013)
Copyright © 2013
by Leah Browning, Editor.
All future rights to material
published in the Apple
Valley Review are retained
by the individual authors
and artists.
www.applevalleyreview.com
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The Fighting Fish