Henk Rossouw

BLACK LIGHT NOCTURNE

A dog asleep with her legs in the air, belly pale, 
           her breath slow on the back of my hand as I scroll 

in the oval of the light-emitting diode by the sofa.
           I’m reading about springhares, a rodent of the biome

where I’m from, whose fur if exposed to black light
           is fluorescent—in erratic patterns of hot pink and

orange—for reasons not even the night can fathom.
           The lighthouse reveals the pink granite barrier

between the house and the endless every few
           seconds. The dog’s legs, as if gas flames, waver

in her sleep. Memory’s tsunami—
           free-range chickens I’d feed as a teenager

on a farm named, in another language,
           Valley of the Little Blue Flowers,

scattered in terror if I opened my arms
           too wide, my torso’s shadow on the earth

identical at dawn to that of the falcon
           hurling downward to strike and devour.

Under black light my species would be
           the flame that sterilizes the blade.

I strangled the chickens. Wattles violet
           in my hands for lack of air. Then the ax.

HENK ROSSOUW is the author of Xamissa (Fordham University Press, 2018). His poems appear in The Paris Review and Poetry. He is an associate professor at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, where he co-directs the creative writing program.