Enikő Vághy: January 2022 Poet of the Month

Photo: Joanna C. Valente

Property

Tonight, the bungalow across the street,
its porch light on for no reason, not even
the body of a stray cat curled beneath it,
I close the blinds, check the locks, return
to bed where you will wake me, brother,
staring through the black of 3 AM, your
presence more unsettling than the slow
creak of a door. Five months, and every
night these meetings. Visits I called them
when I still believed in God, lifted my arms
to the sky, received only air. Now I cross
them over my chest, wonder how many times
it was you [the plastic bottle, the dry leaf
pulled from its branch] who tripped the sensor,
alerted me to the recognizable in nothing.
A light lit for emptiness is a joke. If this is true,
then all you’ve done is prank me. Played
the child you never were, pressed a ghost
hand to my face. Or maybe, you’ve come
looking in on me the way people look in
on old houses. Trying all the knobs, a window
opened to let the cold night in. Before they leave,
a test of the lights. Brief reminder of living,
or whatever the house used to do.


Enikő Vághy is a poet and reviewer whose work has been recognized by the Academy of American Poets College Prize in the graduate division. She is currently a PhD student in the Program for Writers at the University of Illinois at Chicago.