by Erik Campbell

    Papua， Indonesia

    In this mining town in Papua the electricity Has a habit of giving up at night， and this

    Is a miracle of modern stasis， a secular Shabbat，Reminding us of what is expendable， of how so few

    Of us ever truly experience the dark. We are amazed，My wife and I， with the heavy darkness

    Of the no moon jungle， insect sounds lacerating All illusions of silent places. “It‘s so absolute，”

    My wife says， and I like to think she means More than the darkness； the naked places

    Of ourselves we dress in sunlight， lamps，And recorded music like antithetical

    Blanche DeBois‘s fearing a different sort Of scrutiny. “We could pretend it’s 1940，”

    I say， “put a Jack Benny tape on the short wave And drink coffee， light candles.” She suggests

    A walk outside instead， where there are dozens Of others already out on paths bounded by jungle，

    Stepping small and laughing loudly through various Uncertainties； flashlights as eyes， ears like animals‘。

    Soon we are trying only to remember not to disappear Altogether； everything is so absolutely， so darkly possible