Porch Light

As a special treat for my subscribers here, I’m cross-posting a paywalled post on Cetera Magazine here for free. Consider it a “thank you” for following me on this blog for so long, as I know most people who come to this site have been around for quite a while.

I want to share a poem I wrote about seven years ago and dig into how it was made. The funny thing is that what reminded me of this poem recently was the Chapell Roan song “The Subway.” Not because my poem is anywhere near as lyrical and professionally done as Roan’s hopelessly catchy tune, but because they share some of the same principles I like to prioritize when writing both poetry and music.

First, here is the poem itself:

Porch Light

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Sneakers squeaked in the church hall,

Flipped the hymnbook, made me fall—

God was laughing, so was I,

Now you’re gone and I know why.

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You send me photos of your girl,

Her curls lit up, another world—

I press the screen against my face,

Pretend it’s you, pretend I’m safe.

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It’s not over, it’s never over,

I drink you down like cheap red wine.

It’s not over, it’s never over,

I’m twelve years old inside.

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Dropped the laundry on the floor,

Screamed your name and wanted more—

You’re the ghost inside my chest,

The curse, the wound, the holiness.

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It’s not over, it’s never over,

Say I’m free but I know I lie.

It’s not over, it’s never over,

You’re the bruise that makes me shine.

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Every mile’s a coffin carried,

Every star a wish I buried—

From my bed to your porch light,

I’m still dying every night.

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It’s not over, it’s never over,

I drink you down like cheap red wine.

It’s not over, it’s never over,

I’ll see you at the end of time.

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Now this poem went through a lot of iterations before I landed on what you just read, which I’ll get into shortly. But first, I want to dig into how this poem starts and how that reminded me of “The Subway.” If you haven’t heard the song yet, here’s a link to the music video.

Got it? Great. Let’s start with my poem:

Sneakers squeaked in the church hall, flipped the hymnbook, made me fall. God was laughing, so was I. Now you’re gone and I know why.

And in “The Subway”:

I saw your green hair, beauty mark next to your mouth. There, on the subway, I nearly had a breakdown.

These are obviously two very very different lines. But they’re both essentially doing the same thing as opening statements. These lines are oddly specific, right? Green hair, sneakers at church…they instantly conjure a vivid portrait depending on the person reading it. So rather than come off as cliché, you’re giving the reader an idiosyncratic memory that feels personal and irreplaceable.

Similarly, subways and church halls add texture to the setting you’re dreaming up. Both are public, noisy, mundane, maybe even a little intimate depending on the greater context. By anchoring abstract longing in these everyday environments, the poem makes a private pain come off as universal. Which is crucial when trying to build empathy between you and the reader. Which, you know, is usually the goal.

The voice and rhythm of Roan’s song is of course a wild departure from what I’m doing. On the one hand, we’re both using short, declarative lines (“It almost killed me / I had to leave the room” versus “I press the screen against my face” / “Pretend it’s you, pretend I’m safe”) but the real difference is in how Roan’s stanza structure much better mirrors an emotional collapse, while mine is far more choppy and straightforward. We’re both leaning on bodily sensation, sure, but there’s something about the way (pun sort of intended) Roan creates a more circular rhythm in her song that captures the way a breakup can stretch time and make days feel endless.

Plus, I love how she finds this tension between the ordinary and the transcendent. “It’s just another day on the subway” but also we have this mythic underpinning of “soulmates” and a cosmic love rubbing against daily survival. Granted, one of the main reasons I thought of my poem while listening to this song is their similar refrain in “it’s not over” and “it’s never over.” It’s almost eerie. 

And like Roan’s lyrics, my poem is repeating this phrase as a way to embody futility. It’s paradoxical, almost like a koan, but it matches the paradox heartbreak itself in that the relationship ended yet the grief persists. Repetition helpfully enacts the speaker’s “stuckness,” this cycle of remembering, reliving, and failing to move on and move forward.

Originally, my poem started as:

I still remember your sneakers squeaking on the church floor, how you turned the hymnbook upside down just to make me laugh.

Pretty different, right? Well, when I first wrote this I kept thinking it just needed more melodrama. More camp. I wanted to keep the specific childhood triggers but with heavier words that actually reflected the devastation inside them, almost to an exaggerated effect.

The edits from there were simple enough. I aimed for a tight rhythm, so every line would be short, punchy, and easy to say aloud (or sing?) I wanted to craft a strong hook at its center (I drink you down like cheap red wine) and finally craft a real “performance arc” in the way it starts soft with memory, rises to obsession, and then explodes in yearning before peaking and ending on a dramatic final cry.

I hope you enjoyed this little tour through my poetic process, and I promise not to even indirectly compare anything I write to actual masters next time. If there’s anything you found interesting about this poem and/or my take on it, I’d love to hear it. And if you’re itching for more prose from me, we just published a new fantasy short story on Cetera Magazine this past Thursday for all our subscribers, and you can read it for free here.