They Will Sew the Blue Sail

Light-rope | Eliza Rotterman

In my own made-up dark

I understand light as ash falling from god falling from injury.

The light-rope dangling and a mother’s

adolescence is a gun

left in the body. A bright liquid night

spit on the sheets and drying

like the pulp of an apricot. The sun

today is hysterical or maybe I’m in love

in another life. I’m looking at you

looking at the sea. I’m shouting at the waves,

anything, you lied, can happen.