Art Poetry


“I squinted past the yellowed glass
but could not reach you.”

By Stephanie Garon

Turn left, then right where brick canyons cave
Into restaurant rooftops, decaying friezes
Whispering city history like Yaxchilan lintels:
One crooked alley morphs silhouettes into drain pipes with
Night, the magician, molding frames:

Harvest moon Saturday rises stoically above ramparts,
Spotlights your hunter grey jacket
No longer camouflaged, tilting shadow against railings:

Trapped like a saint’s small wisp of hair
gets stuck between cedar planks of a reliquary,
I squinted past the yellowed glass
but could not reach you.

If a photo twists dimensions, separation spreads centuries
Into borders, shuffling ochre rinsed memories in
the shoebox.

Stephanie Garon received dual science degrees from Cornell University, then attended Maryland Institute College of Art (MICA). Her environmental art has been exhibited internationally in London, Colombia, and South Korea, as well as across the United States. Her writing, a critical aspect of her artistic process, has been published in international literary journals. Her work can be found at or @garonstudio.

Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Unsplash