Signs (Or M. Night Shyamalan’s Last Good Film)

by Bryan Harvey

Crop circles would be too dramatic,

like runes in place of the alphabet,

or a letter instead of a text. And besides,

the glasses of water—undrunk—are 

easy enough to find, after she falls asleep or

starts her commute. I find the mugs 

of coffee—lukewarm—after she heads 

for the gym or to the store.

I sip from them—have even wet

two fingers up to the knuckle in them,

circling, pondering distant creek beds

and forgotten dawns. I think of a film

where a young girl keeps aliens at bay

and the audience in suspense with the

power of half-filled water glasses—

lukewarm and undrunk. My lips burn

with thirst, and I wonder from what

aliens might my wife be hiding. Her 

shadow stirs in the lamplight under-

neath the door; she can see me too,

I assume, lurking, before placing 

the glass back where I found it,

where she left it, where two aliens

 

make contact, without words,

without sounds, without code

or call, only water—and life—and 

a place to keep them safe. 


Bryan Harvey's writing has appeared recently in HobartRejection Letters, and The Daily Drunk, and it has appeared less recently in The Florida Review's AquiferGravel, and Cold Mountain Review. He lives and teaches in Virginia and tweets @Bryan_S_Harvey. He dreams about basketball on long runs.

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