Like some repetitive rapist,
the night is closing in on me.
The day is gone like a ghost,
and it shall never haunt me again.
I always look for tomorrow,
seeing if a different object will appear,
but I am the same,
the circumstances are the same,
and nighttime is always a circus.
The night is so relentless,
like a child armed with sticks.
It means the day cannot be resurrected,
no matter how many wands provided.
It means there’s a death of something important,
death of something I could’ve molded,
death of an opportunity I missed.
And so it goes through the noose,
and I feel my neck tickled with rope.
Amanda Tumminaro lives in the U.S. with her loving family and her cat. She’s been published in The Scriblerus, Hot Metal Bridge and The Phoenix, among others. Her chapbook, “The Flying Onion” (2018), was published by The Paragon Press.