Contributor: J.K. Durick

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The slight never turn or pose that way,
manage angles and shadows more,
maintain the illusion of shape and size,
create corners and roundabouts
distract the eye with their easy edges.

The slight adjust their height, the weight
of clothes, the cinch of belt, the forgiveness
of bulk, layered sweaters and coats, clashing
hats, the glare of scarf, of tie, of color to trap
the observer’s eye.

The slight can’t leave the table too soon,
a balance between anything at all and
not enough, can’t always divert attention
with brisk talk and distracting gestures.

The slight wait for night, blend the dusk into
their appearance, measure distances from
streetlight to streetlight, walk, whistle, catch
the dark in the dark, blur beginnings and ends,
handle each moment as gently as they might
knowing they too are so slight.


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J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Thrush Poetry Journal, Black Mirror, Third Wednesday, Shot Glass Journal, and Orange Room.