towards a silver light. An oval eye.
Not a door or window or portal
with light beckoning from without.
Shiny like new aluminum pots, or
a star’s inner heart. She resisted,
part of her did, the edge of wonder,
the catapult of emotions flung freely
from a galaxy unnamed, unnumbered.
The tip of a feather. The distant onk
onk of geese who no longer migrate.
The rush of fresh water towards
a salted sea. A woman sings a song into
the eye of a rising sun, knowing it won’t
see her for what she is, could care less
if her irises melted, or her vision be
shrouded in perpetual darkness.