Invisible Siege

Photo by Kelly Sikkema

A Poem by Megan Huwa

I exhale in white space 

1,200 miles from home 

and grieve this mimicry of life

where ink-black font overlays 

artificial white. I am a fleck 

of dust blown from the binding of a book— 

   a free fall, 

   invisible, 

   swarmed 

   by unknown flecks, 

   until light breaks through 

   the open window: 

       the light transfigures light,

       the spect becomes matter,       

       the matter matters

       the free falls with might.

Megan Huwa is a poet and writer in southern California. A rare health condition keeps her and her husband from living near her family’s five-generation farm in Colorado, so her writing reaches for home—both temporal and eternal. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Thimble, Clayjar Review, Solum Literary Press, Calla Press, Ekstasis, and elsewhere, and featured on The Habit Podcast and Vita Poetica Podcast. Find her at meganhuwa.com.