Fingers of Darkness

Betsy Joseph

June 11, 2023

My friend steps cautiously to the edge of darkness,

myopic eyes peering into the unknown.

At eighty-six he is nobody’s fool.

A single step farther and the fingers of dimness

might touch him, might tag him first.

This is no child’s game, though.

Darkness is playing for keeps,

and he knows it as surely as he knows

that once beyond the border he will not return.

He will not be able to run to home base

to the call, “Olly olly in-come-free.”

Not prepared to lose his memory,

much less kick the bucket,

he wishes he could kick the can again

with boyhood chums whose names

are now wispy as his days are a blur.

Dusky shadows lean closer, straining to touch—

perhaps preparing to embrace him—

but he is able to still step back.

Not today.

My friend selfishly wants more time in the light.

Not yet. 

He asks the fingers of darkness to tag someone else.

Betsy Joseph lives in Dallas and has poems that have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies. She is the author of two poetry books published by Lamar University Literary Press: Only So Many Autumns (2019) and most recently, Relatively Speaking (2022), a collaborative collection with her brother, poet Chip Dameron. In addition, she and her husband, photographer Bruce Jordan, have produced two books, Benches and Lighthouses, which pair her haiku with his black and white photography.