I.
Through the telescope
scientists stare at the sun
as it was eight minutes ago.
II.
What scares her most is
what she cannot remember.
The man across the room –
a copy of her husband but
twenty years older.
III.
Our countertop is dirty and
the blue sky covered in
spilled milk.
My fists hatch
falling short of the
heart.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.
Heather Lang’s poetry has recently been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and serves as Assistant Editor for The Literary Review, and has reviewed for Atticus Review, Gently Read Literature, and HTMLGIANT. She is a freelance copywriter and an adjunct instructor.
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