Tonya Eberhard

On Eve of New Year’s Eve

Waiting. Eyes staring into the green glow of the
digital clock. It’s getting late. Snowflakes crystallize
and dissolve, swallowed by the air. Some unknown
premonition brews in the sky.  No one is in the
mood to know. The clock screams, “four minutes went by.”
Visible winter breath proves this. Radio sings frozen
static on every station. Looking out the car window
into the window of the house. Yellow light bleeds
through glass, thin walls. Snow covers its crookedness, its holes.
Snow covers scabs with the downy white of a bird,
an angel. Anything godly that can fly. It triggers
black bile rising in the body. It sounds like that sound,
any sound, the sound of a wound festering, splitting open—
She grips the steering wheel. The keys in the ignition
are icicles. She turns them—too late. Figure like a phantom,
shadow of black dog approaches. A gift, an unwrapping.
Unveil it. In the dark it is stripped of tissue and pulsating life.
Leather bound, holding blank pages. A handmade pen
carved from walnut wood. Wait, he says, bringing her
hand up to his face. Wisps of white tissue paper reveal a
white mask. Unveil it. Before she gasps, a hand caresses her thigh.
White, downy white, anything godly can fly. Pure white
seduction. Paper and ink, what would it think if it was not
a slave to another’s fingers and thoughts? Would it betray
the hand that gripped it, so naïve, too human, and unseeing?

Copyright © Tonya Eberhard 2016

Tonya Eberhard recently graduated from the University of Missouri. She currently lives in Minnesota. Her work has appeared in The Wild Word,  Fauna QuarterlyThe Commonline Journal, The Gambler Mag,  Creative Talents Unleashed,  Algebra of Owls, and many others.


About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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