How the Light Gets In

The light bends
refracts through glass panes
Dancing in and out of shadows
Penetrating curtains
like parchment paper

Yellow, amber hues
lost warm sap slithering on the walls like snakes
Pores releasing
Absorbing the heat

Pupils contract
A mask across my eyes
Beads of soft fertile sweat

Humidity winding my hair up like tendrils of morning glories
climbing stairs
Reaching

This is how my skin should feel
Golden, bronzed
Warmed from 93,000,000 miles away
Traveling to brush my cheeks

186,000 miles per second
Hurling itself 8 minutes from the past
From the gaseous star bubbling, breaking space

Seamlessly gliding through the atmosphere
To touch me
To remind me how small I am

It bends, it breaks, it cracks
Creating new shapes
Creating negative space
This is how the light gets in.

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Unfurl

The unfurling, unwinding, unwrapping of self. The removal of mummified remains. The moment when you close your eyes and another world emerges behind your lids, softer, easier to navigate. Right before you open your eyes. That moment, frozen, where light filters through your skin, your body still. I want a brilliant opening like a bud held tight bursting in color, from fiddlehead to fern. Like the open arms and heart of my child, the ripping of paper. Tear me apart and fold me in new angles, new geometry of the soul. Origami eyes, quietly shutting, yet I am never truly closed.