evening in the hotel

when you take my eyes,
I begin to see through yours:
I notice leaves on the carpet
where I had thought magnolias grew
and you go
very quiet,
the pattern on the lampshade staining your complexion.

                                                                                    What words of comfort
                                                                                                I could say now
                                                                                                    are caught in
                                                                                                       the ashtray.

I think you should - turn the lights off when you sleep -
because I've been noticing
those moths,
trapped by the sheen of your eyelids
beating their wings
helplessly
against your skin -
begging you to wake.
I have to turn out the light myself.


Sarah Daymond
St Andrew's College
Christchurch
3rd place (Secondary)


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