Filament

The instruction on the bottle is a blur,

a line of 6-point type I’m squinting to read

under the yellow hum of the kitchen dome.

Then there’s a sharp 'pop'—a small, glass death—

and the room goes flat and charcoal.

I stood there in the sudden weight of the dark,

still holding the pills for a headache

that was already turning into a migraine.

You don't notice the light until it's a lack,

a physical pressure against your eyes.

I dragged the chair over and stood on the seat,

unscrewing the warm glass with a dish towel.

When I shook it by my ear, it rattled,

a tiny, coiled wire snapped and dry,

looking like a dead insect in a jar.

Just a thin bit of metal that couldn't hold on

to the job of staying bright.