About the Feature

Photo by Paul Asman and Jill Lenoble 

Remember: headlamps,
worn to move through

total darkness. We hit
the road too late, by the

time we pulled into the
parking lot, twilight,

then even less than that.
New Hampshire winter,

days done early. I liked
being in dusk with you.

An arrow of lamplight
let me see your breath,

every exhalation. Each
occurred to me, counted.

You could say it didn’t
matter, but you might

be missing something.
You wore layer upon

layer, you peeled each
off, we walked on ice.

We did not slip, didn’t
break, sprain, fracture.

Invisible stars, clouds,
moonless January sky.

Can you picture this,
even now? I conjure it

over and over. Dark as
something to dance in,

to adore. It was like that
for me. Oh, loneliness—

you come in little slices,
clementine in my hand.

About the Author

Emma Lewis is completing a master’s degree at Harvard University focused on conservation and memory studies. “Walking at Night” is her first published poem. She is from Massachusetts.