The light here on earth keeps us plenty busy: a fire in central Pennsylvania still burns bright since 1962. Whole squads of tiny squid blaze up the coast of Japan before sunrise. Of course you didn’t show when we went searching for you, but we found other lights: firefly, strawberry moon, a tiny catch of it in each other’s teeth. Someone who saw you said they laid down in the middle of the road and took you all in, and I’m guessing you’re used to that—people falling over themselves to catch a glimpse of you and your weird mint-glow shushing itself over the lake. Aurora, I’d rather stay indoors with him—even if it meant a rickety hotel and its wood paneling, golf carpeting in the bathrooms, and grainy soapcakes. Instead of waiting until just the right hour of the shortest blue-night of the year when you finally felt moved enough to collide your gas particles with sun particles— I’d rather share sunrise with him and loon call over the lake with him, the slap of shoreline threaded through screen windows with him. My heart slams in my chest, against my shirt—it’s a kind of kindling you’d never be able to light on your own. Copyright © 2016 Aimee Nezhukumatathil. Used with permission of the author. |
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