By: Seán Griffin
Small hairs of your chest, normally
invisible like fishing line, alight from
the bedside lamp, bright. On end.
Reaching out like tethers to the unseen
unless the light is traced along
these lines. That reach out. Out. Into
the world, following their path to poke
holes for stars, to thread through
boughs, braid with branch and twig
to cup speckled eggs, tied deep past sod
and soil where the earth is dark, shiny-
wet, back to our slumbering pups
twined in their furs, and I feel the tickle
of the hair ends brush against mine.
Seán Griffin received his MFA in Creative Writing from Manhattanville College. His writing has appeared in The Southampton Review, Impossible Archetype, Cathexis Northwest Press, The Offbeat, and elsewhere. He teaches writing at Concordia College of New York, is an editor for Inkwell Literary Journal, and lives in New York with his three dogs.