Karina Jha
Lamplighter
Lamplighter has not one daughter;
He lives all alone in his hat,
Eats fish on burnt toast for supper,
And watches the neighbors grow fat.
In winter, he bundles his nose up,
And layers three thick woolen coats,
Then Lamplighter lights his street golden
Before the dark licks his throat.
Lamplighter doesn’t know sunrise
He prefers to sleep clear past noon.
He takes no tea with his breakfast,
Only sucks all the oil from his spoon.
In Lamplighter’s town, all the sidewalks
Have sprouted small graves in their cracks.
As he walks every dusk, he will smash them
To carve out more room for the black.
He lives all alone in his hat,
Eats fish on burnt toast for supper,
And watches the neighbors grow fat.
In winter, he bundles his nose up,
And layers three thick woolen coats,
Then Lamplighter lights his street golden
Before the dark licks his throat.
Lamplighter doesn’t know sunrise
He prefers to sleep clear past noon.
He takes no tea with his breakfast,
Only sucks all the oil from his spoon.
In Lamplighter’s town, all the sidewalks
Have sprouted small graves in their cracks.
As he walks every dusk, he will smash them
To carve out more room for the black.
Karina Jha is a literary enthusiast from Northampton, Massachusetts. She is currently working towards a BA in Writing, Literature, and Publishing at Emerson College in Boston. Her work is centered around exploring themes of femininity, multi-cultural identity, and the melding of fantasy and reality. She has won multiple awards for poetry, short story, and flash fiction. Her work can be found in Aura Literary Arts Review, Stork Magazine, Heartburn Review, and Plum Literary Magazine.