When the sky makes this transaction
stars are bewildered, as always, by the blue
sparks of their own faces in deep ocean trenches.
Counter-illumination allows fish to change glow
depending on the penetration of sunlight or moonlight,
but pure bioluminescence swells out of heart valves,
out of flutter. My first grief’s hidden from sun;
I’m the lantern unaware that the sorrow
growing like night around my father’s death
is laced with gunpowder. Then the vulgar transfer,
an earthquake: another grief to disassemble the first,
a new machine that replaces father’s absence
with lover’s exit. Mornings wet with dismissal,
the heart’s rug burn, my colossal failure to exhale
enough light. Energy must transmit, happiness
needs allocation. It makes as little sense as the story
of Christ on the cross: a man perpetually dying for the sins
of every human. The exchange is born from acid fear.
But here we are, all the broken-hearted blunderers building
ugly metaphors, craving shelter inside a mirrored dome.