• By Frances Isler (they/them)
  • Art “Blue Point” by Frances Isler (they/them)

I am needing to remember
how it feels to be lit from within.

My fingernails drag drawings
on the sun’s smooth skin—

those golden streaks of ember beads
stain silver as the blue hour settles
in the sternum of Her Majesty Moon’s sky

I could not fathom silence like this—

On the cusp of total twilight, cradled between sound and noise

on the verge of one certain storm

Silent
solitude
of my own
making—
writing manifestos on a
pillowcase,
nailing love letters on the waterfront.

Lonely only for the first time,
the blue hour thrives on

unsettling thoughts

pushed into a
touchless
tank,
with one bright star, bright star,

a pen,
and sleep.