In my own made-up dark
I understand light as ash falling from god falling from injury.
The light-rope dangling and a mother’s
adolescence is a gun
left in the body. A bright liquid night
spit on the sheets and drying
like the pulp of an apricot. The sun
today is hysterical or maybe I’m in love
in another life. I’m looking at you
looking at the sea. I’m shouting at the waves,
anything, you lied, can happen.