Umbral Lamentations

Jacqueline Kate Goldblatt


I know you.

I know how you sit in pitch-black parlors, scanning the ceiling for stars with eyes like blind radars in the dark.

I know you.

I know the way the palm of your hand frightens you with all of its lines, its strange designs like



       Sand   in    the


                         Desert or





I know you.

But you do not know me.

You see me, standing there where you stand, matching you, synchronized in speed.

But you do not know me.

You acknowledge me, lying beneath you, conforming to your prone shape as consciousness recedes.

But you do not know me.

One of a form such as yours can’t possibly…



You cried under the sheets

And I, a mere echo,

Wept alongside you, though the twilight’s gloom hid my tears

While yours illuminated upon the pointlessness of a life without love.

If only I could show you that you are not alone…



Last night, I prayed for the first time,

A primitive prayer, a droning chant that escalated to promises and confessions, impossible to recant.

I prayed for us,

Whispering “Amalgam, Amalgam, oh let us intermingle, come forth a form that is single, one of flesh and tenebrous matter, melding ‘til differences are scant!”

I prayed for us,

But was unheard by both you and what listens from corners, Gods that lurk in mouse eyes, peeping mourners staring from holes smaller than sound yet bigger than silence, listening for the death knell that comes with the swipe of despair’s grimalkin claws. Listening in vain for a hint of mercy,

Listening for nothing else.

I prayed for I,

And realized Narcissus was taunting me.


Jacqueline Kate Goldblatt is a student studying journalism and comparative literature at Rutgers University. She loves all things dark, dangerous, and fantastical. Her work has been published by the Rutgers Review: Arts and Culture Magazine and she was recently appointed as the editor for its Potpourri Section.