One of my parents was a blade, the other a mop.
One was a screech, the other an empty voicemail box.
In the night I’d wake to jazz and the faint
smell of gas.
The miniature heartagram tattooed on my soul
is the one for the love I thought I’d never find.
One of my parents was a beartrap,
the other a pitcher I carried into the night,
convinced it was fragile.
One of my parents I drank, the other I dreamed.
In the revolving door of my becoming,
one yanked me from afar and one stood stagnant.
Oftentimes our first reactions to slipping on ice
are enhanced by the brilliant, beaming sun beating on our bare backs.
Photons and the Quantum Theory may inform boffins and scientists
about light, but tribulations are what force the true light
within us to shine. Light can be photographed, written about, simulated,
and even synthetically produced — but the arcane secret is this:
genuine light cannot be harvested or captured
(as it is already within us all).
Oftentimes light is invisible — the naked eye cannot hear
the sound of a lover’s laughter, or fathom the feeling
of a mellow embrace…
20 | UTC honors student | English and Creative Writing | aspiring inspirer