By Corinne Wohlford Mason

It was winter solstice. As day faded, 
we drove to the appointment
through our city and over the river, 
a circuitous route, the golden light
ennobling the derelict brick, the industry
of the river, the winter hawks perching
on the floodplain. The news was 
not that bad, but still, bad enough. 
We had options. We drove home 
toward one bright star against the pink 
spill of sunset. Look at this light
we kept saying. Here is a neighborhood 
we have never seen before. The sky shifted 
sapphire to black. We floated 
premises; they floated away. We would 
choose later, let the longest night 
take its time. We would do this right.

Corinne Wohlford Mason teaches U.S. history, culture studies, and writing, and she chairs the Department of Humanities at Fontbonne University in St. Louis. She holds an MFA in poetry from Washington University and a Ph.D. in American Studies from Saint Louis University. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Phoebe, HarvardReview, the GrolierPoetryPrizeAnnual, and BenningtonReview.

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