Once on a plane headed
east from California,
I watched light
ripple across the ground,
blackening everything
it washed over.
I thought of the sparks
trailing through the wrinkles
in Moses’ face—
how in the wake of G-d’s glory
his skin must have cindered.
We look at everything
but each other,
hoping to catch the other
reflected in whatever dull thing—
the cold shoulder of a picture frame,
the brass belly of a lamp,
a doorknob oiled by our blind hands.
There is a safety in this,
in being one degree removed
from the unveiled.
“Do you think it comes
from inside or out?” I ask.
It’s hard to say the thing you mean
when you don’t understand the thing itself.
So much goes unknown
for fear of being named.
You look at the window,
but not through it.
The sun is setting across Kentucky.
The glass catches bright and dark.
I want you to delight in the haze
of my undressing,
but know that it will burn.
I’m looking for the place
where light gets in.