32 | Psychopomp Magazine
Howie Good
Nocturnal Sun
As people hurry by each other on the street, imagine that some are communicating in code. The word “rain” means that a loved one has been arrested, the word “snow” that he or she has disappeared. I stand on the corner as if assigned to stand there, right eye looking outward, left eye looking inward. Others huddle in family groups, sobbing. I watch you approach with your characteristic shuffle. My face shows nothing of the regret I feel. Easily, almost inconspicuously, it begins to snow. ♦