November Nocturne

Even planets turn away from the easement of light,
sometimes. Nightís a rehearsal for the orb
and distance of winter, its map-unmaking
and its unmap-making, its failure to ravel
wander from resist. All night the night sounds
like children not breathing. I am afraid
of a thing and its opposite: leaving and not,
subject unspecified. The curtain stirs
though the window is closed. Stars flash
like bees abandoning the hive, humming a lullaby
in drone, in monotone but with the Doppler effect
of a death mask, coming right at you, wind
pulsing around the edges because there is
no mouth-shaped hole, no eye-sized emptinesses.

Jessica Goodfellow's manuscript, The Insomniacís Weather Report, recently won the Three Candles Press First Book Prize. She has also published a chapbook, A Pilgrimís Guide to Chaos in the Heartland. Jessicaís work has appeared in Best New Poets 2006 and on Verse Daily and The Writerís Almanac. A recipient of the Chad Walsh Poetry Prize from the Beloit Poetry Journal, Jessica lives in Japan with her husband and sons. (

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761