Layers of Light
By Emily Hizny
My soul can only crawl from its resting place
away from the pure sun,
fragile enough to sizzle and steam under its smoldering rays
what I need is midnight, moonlight, twilight,
a cavern of faint crystal glow,
reflecting and refracting all the hues I need.
Evening thoughts are stitched
with the same tailoring as my soul,
so easily tattered in brightness.
We must be preserved in cool air
like a painting, precious and crisp
from our own company,
untainted by rough-and-tumble touch.
I could carve sediment and soil into a home,
even take up the task of molding a volcano
ash and basalt in my lungs,
the magma a forbidden treasure
exuding rays without matchstick ignition.
The lava lies on its own,
illuminating the onyx-coated air
and melting to obsidian oblivion.
Rain I could allow into my midnight dwelling,
trace man-made roads and paths
in search of puddles,
little ponds of silver-scaled fish
vaulting under moon rays
this is a world I could live in,
soft piano against the pattering rain
echoing memories and lingering life.
I can only exist in the half-light.
A Spilling Angel
If I dig below my sunset scars
maybe I’ll find the roots of their rays,
starlit javelins with painful precision
battling my skyline of sutures,
stitches snipped and sculpted
to halt the gushing gorge of sunshine,
finally crafting a dam
my flesh agreed to finis
Such a fragile-forged
trinket we are, interlocked
with incorrect love.
Fissures and cracks span chasms
on x-ray screens, translucent skeleton
in various shades of shattered.
Simple injuries from quiet missteps
and accidents drawing onlookers’ gaze
sculpt healthy structures to rifts and fractures.
My break resembled more of a crescent than a crevice,
tiny lunar phase ripped from revolution with
night-light shine, a little celestiality within me.
For months my sliver stood in separate stasis,
a painfully jinxed puzzle piece
waiting to be placed back in its planet.
Slowly my sinew began to heal, frost over
in zealous rejuvenation
with strings of doubled strength,
aching quaking muscles relaxed
and tendons let go of their loves,
with the inevitable aid of time
my vessel repaired its crested canyon
with force and fusion
I could not feel.