George David Clark

Black Igloo

The shadows thrown

by snowcaps here are thin


as hose or onionskin,

and what the clouds


cast massive over town

is not so proud


that it won’t scatter

once the South howls in.


At two the street-lit lawn

still squints our shades;


by dawn the focal

watts of sunshot want


to soak us in their flashy

spill, to flaunt


light’s violence past

the glass and chintz blockades.


For rest, we’ll need

an umbra old enough


to stand, a feat of cold

in loam-dark bricks


paroled from antique

drawers and frosted fixed


with all the chrome

eclipses we can slough


out sleep by hand. We’ll leave

no doors. No cracks.


We’ll steep our eyes

beneath a dome of black.




“Black Igloo” first appeared in The Arkansas International, vol. 2, 2017.