Don’t Mention The Misery Behind The Light
the ones who live in the sky
show their face’s as night approaches
and if you knew why,
then you would understand everything.
they huddle in the reflection,
drinking in the mother light
a wish, suspended on the tongue of belief
that it is enough to mirror her.
closer inspection would show the pits and scars,
scarves draped just so to hide the wounds
where breasts used to be before a slip of surgical knife,
or where slivers of sadness caved them in
as if something was removed and flung free
or calved and set out into a space of their own.
they have no need to apologize nor stand
on some soapbox, spouting off in flare
or simmering in the spit of unfairness.
they will turn their face from you,
if you get close enough to notice
their green incredible light.
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