The Lighthouse Keeper's Inventory

He counts the things that stay: the brass lamp, oiled each Tuesday, a logbook thick with weather, the chipped mug from a wife who learned the language of leaving.

Outside, the gulls argue with the wind. Inside, salt has crept into the hinges, into the bread, into the slow arithmetic of waiting for ships that no longer come this way.

He speaks to the lamp sometimes, calls it by his brother's name. The beam swings out across black water and finds nothing, finds nothing, finds the same indifferent horizon.

Still, at dusk, he climbs the iron stairs. Still, he strikes the wick. The light goes out across the bay like a hand, palm open, asking the dark to be gentle.