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 Hobart, Rejection Letters, and The Daily Drunk, and it has appeared less recently in The Florida Review's Aquifer, Gravel, and Cold Mountain Review. He lives and teaches in Virginia and tweets @Bryan_S_Harvey. He dreams about basketball on long runs.
