Member Poem

Lights Out — Drew Attana

Take me out tonight, because I want to see

people and I want to see life — Morrissey

I come from four-finger salutes and departures

at 0600, from murals and spidered glass. 

I waved at the refracted light from cockpit windows, 

held to the ground by my mother’s hand, and rallied 

against caskets and cells, held back from inevitability

by the fist of grace—the impossible unknowing.

I am charged by fear, by interchangeable anxieties

that shift direction, points of attack. I am the product 

of loss, of lust and the guarantee of the silver screen.

Of close calls, and even closer relationships. I am one

failed exam away from being found out—I am the frayed 

stitching and sweat stained fabric of a Dodgers hat.

I write to forget, and to ignore. I write to remember

that I made it through the red light, through the gravy

trays at camp and the sexy pull of the 27 club. 

I write to keep the bad men from the door, to build

barricades and levies against the rush of youth—

I am writing this because, honestly, I still can.

I can’t stop, won’t stop, because if I keep the engine

running, the pedal mashed, and I make sure I miss

this exit and the next one and all the rest, then I can

stay hidden. I can exist in between the lines: on 

the asphalt, on my face and on the printed page,

because this—this is the light that never goes out.