We were taught to put our faith
in the idea of light—its soft
beginning chords, its copper sheen
at day's end; that place above
the clouds opening like a gate to
a country supposedly without
suffering. In summer, we slick our bodies
with oil, bask in any atrium of heat
poured through the ceiling above the sea.
Dark to begin with before any added
burnishing, we sleeve our peasant skins,
our colonized skins; untangle braids
that once grew so long, we were thought
to sweep the floors with them.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
