Poetry

August 2021

The beacon in a sea of pavement

The neighborhood is empty. The fireflies are dead.

By Sara Stevenson

August 4, 2021

The beacon in a sea of pavement

The dark is speckled with bugs, a film

grain that keeps the house awake till half past dusk.


The diffused lights signal on and off, on and off,

to each other; individual ships and lighthouses buzz


by lanterns on the ground. The television gathers waves

from somewhere far away, a place we’ll never be. The sparks


fall one by one from the socket, into the past, where

they rattle like lost baby teeth in a jewelry box.


I am home. I found my way,

warm and stale, not a hint of effervescence.


The neighborhood is empty. The fireflies are dead.

I forgot my key. The door is locked.






Sara Stevenson is a lover of ghosts, dogs and all things hidden. She is a second year student in the Writing for Children and Young Adults program at The New School and she hopes to write something great, someday.


__