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In Literature, Writing and Blogging • 1 min read •
Outage
<p>Light is a solitary technology.</p><p>Under it each of us acquires a desk,</p><p>a screen, a face turned inward</p><p>and lit from below like a small private moon.</p><p><br/></p><p>Then the grid, with no ceremony, lets go.</p><p><br/></p><p>And the street rediscovers its old instruments:</p><p>the cough that means I am here,</p><p>the match offered across a fence,</p><p>the voice, which has waited years</p><p>to be a person's only lamp.</p><p><br/></p><p>The refrigerator's hum stops and the house becomes a size.</p><p>Rooms we had shrunk to the glow of one rectangle</p><p>widen back to their original dark,</p><p>and a family learns it has lived for years</p><p>in the same place without once sharing it.</p><p><br/></p><p>Children are sent to sit where adults can be found.</p><p>Strangers must say their names,</p><p>because faces no longer say them for free.</p><p><br/></p><p>We call this deprivation.</p><p>The pharmacy counts it in ice and insulin,</p><p>and that loss is real. Let nobody pretend otherwise.</p><p><br/></p><p>But the dark has always known</p><p>what the bulb has always forgotten:</p><p>that people were not made to be seen.</p><p>They were made to be located.</p><p>                                                              <em>by Nerys Ombu  </em></p>

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