Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
Looking into the mirror they saw faces so familiar on the other side through the clouds. It was early yet as the light rose at a famed hour above a straight line of destiny. In clamor they sat before the news unchanged devouring this energy to sleepy creatures. Prisoners of a forced silence they looked down at a desk scolded for what they did not do but did. Trapped in the river of gases and decibels suffocated they coughed their way to others like them. Facing through the glass as darkness prevailed faithfully anew they recognized their image in gentle vagueness. Side by side, he and she, wishing for a touch wrinkled by life now unconscious as if yet nothing had passed.
In a corner at the end of the line she sits a tear wants to run its course to oblivion. Alert to the prayers of another moment silent she sighs a bundle of ache averts her gentle breath. The ebony waves hide the sky-blue gaze of her soul she cries inside in secret behind the wall of a past force. Alone again, safe from the impending stranger pain she hides everything to disappear into her shell of steel. The crowd around her now an abstraction she loves passionately the creation where she knows all answers reside.
The presence is signed on the old photograph hanging there on the left wall, by the window built of trusted hands, while outside the tree wants attention. He too can write on the pane of the ancient glass. Finger prints on the side of the redwood desk, tend to the forgotten elbow, never fully able to rest on the worn-out couch, trampoline for young charm. It hoped its future would be of leather; but not so. The room screams with memories it alone keeps safe; the air is filled with sparring souls attempting an accord; freckles of dust, sparks of their little power inflamed. Wishing they had landed on the feature of a Mona Lisa. Unwilling to shine, the lamp, secure under her banged shade, would like to jump at them and empower their dying light, while planted on the thinning carpet, they remain quiet. Waiting for another moment, another time, to become.