a poem by Atalie Young


the day is yet unripe
and so we clamor to our knees
to beg a little loving light
                        a little crack of light
to break through the prismed panes
                                   that surround us.

sifting through the dreams of nights
                                   not just ours
                                               but history's
recorded dreams unscrolled in our minds,
            we subsist on the stories told—
the scriptural truths in bits
sized to our hunger and seasoned
            to taste so that we have sampled
a spectrum of lights with our tongue
            gleaming in the radiance of morning
                        sung in flowing chords
as viscous as the oil lamps we burn
during dark shadows.

            though we become turgid with expectation,
                       our joints twitching for His return,
we wash the stained windows
                        to let through the rays,
            and filter through the rough
                                    as a day of sacrifice
for every tarnished doorknob that needs polished
            by our prayer
                         we crawl our way up
the mountain crag and nestle
                       in a hidden nook
                                    keeping both eyes vigilant
for His shadow to cross the garden path,
                        to oust the dark of night
                                                and call us home for dinner.




Atalie Young ’05 is an English and American Literature and Language concentrator in Quincy House.