Deactivated Lighthouse
 

I am six years old
Walking on the beach
My grown-up cousin who looks ancient says,
“Take a good look.
This is the last time the lighthouse will ever shine.” 

I don’t ask why, don’t even wonder
Just look and look and look 

Grandma, even more ancient than my cousin, says,
“When I was your age, the keeper took me out on a rowboat during his supply trip.
We sailed past the sea lions on choppy waves.” 

I look at the light again
As it cuts through the mist
A seagull’s squawk echoes
The light shines on 

Mama takes a picture with her new camera
Even then, I know the picture will be blurred
I do not know it will be colorized years later,
Then shoved away in a trunk to molder 

But now, I look at the light one last time
Knowing it will never shine again
Except in my memory
Where I will keep it
Until I’m as old as Ancient Grandma and Ancient Cousin

The Monsoon Season of Friendship

When we were five,
We shared the same umbrella, all three of us
Giggling and holding one handle, jumping in puddles 

By eight, we needed two umbrellas
Not that we didn’t try to keep squeezing under one
Whispering, sharing secrets, pretending we were too old for puddle jumping 

At eleven, we were too big to share
We needed our own umbrellas then
But the whispers, giggles, and secrets continued with no more puddle jumping 

In high school, we still walked home in the rain
But the playfulness began to fade
I had no interest in boys and celebrities and fashion, but we were still friends 

Then, one friend got married and moved away
One last time, we shrieked and gossiped under our umbrellas
But I knew it wouldn’t be the same again 

Then the other friend married and moved away
Before she left, I splashed in a puddle on purpose, getting her wet
A last stand for innocent friendship and an expression of hurt 

One day, the friends returned, but they had no time for giggles
Now, their rain-walking talk consisted of cooing about their babies
Complaining about husbands, grumping about in-laws, fretting about the future 

I hung back, having nothing to say
No husband, no children—I am less and less needed, less and less loved
I have my own umbrella and no friends willing to share it 

Why can’t we be five again?

Corvid Pareidolia

Look at the crow from the side
Glue your eyes upon its tail
Trace the curves of its wings
In this pose, I see my grandfather 

Look carefully, as I have done
The tail feathers are his bulbous nose
The wingspan his shaggy beard
The beak his old baseball cap 

Just before he died, he told me
“When I come back, I shall be a crow
I’ll fly through a dreary sky
And you shall see my face” 

It sounded silly then
As did his views on crows
He loved the creatures dearly
Scavengers though they were 

“The sheen of their wings
Outshines the blackest stallion
Their craggy caws make a chorus
And their families they never shirk

“So think of me, when you see a crow
Remember the man who taught you well
Who knew the importance of family
And understood the truth of beauty 

“For on a dark and cloudy day
When all hope seems lost
Look to the sky and find a crow
That silhouette on the wing is me”

Author’s Biography

E.J. LeRoy is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer and poet whose work has appeared in several publications including The Carrier Bag, Neon & Smoke, NonBinary Review, Quotidian Bagatelle, and Usawa Literary Review. LeRoy also has a science fiction novella forthcoming at The Whumpy Printing Press in March 2026. Visit the author's website at http://ejleroy.weebly.com.