My brother would be a neon sign,
hopping to the front of the window, made of energy,
or maybe a glowstick, spinning like a ferris wheel,
something to dance with, but still the kind of thing
that can tickle your eye sockets until you puke.
My mom would be the hall light,
permanent and older than the cracks in the plaster,
creeping under our doors at night-
sees you when you’re sleeping, and knows when you’re awake.
My dad would be a flashlight,
useful anywhere but never there when you need him,
able to swoop under things and look around from any perspective,
two cups of Guatamala coffee same as two AA batteries.
Because I’m looking from the inside out I can only see myself as what I illuminate,
but I see light stamped into the ground, crisscrossed with the shadows of strewn clothes or branches,
The dog is easy:
the bathroom light,
skimming over mirrors, always left on.
This poem was written for the We Write Poems prompt Light.