Light Betrays

— Krysta Lee Frost

Still, the surprise that light
can take the shape of a whole city

behind fingers of clouds
unfurling. Somewhere, a fist curls,

uncurls familiarly. A beam finds
a neck in periphery,

bowing. Eyeless, the glasses
on the nightstand, the dream spun

out of light, engulfed by static.
But still you’re there, faceless until

formation, and so many ugly things
you’ve given me without the words

to name them. I call them my hands.
I call them myopia. How without seeing

I know you’re there. How the moonless
sky beckons itself into clarity

and I’m nowhere near you, protected
by darkness and distance, yet light,

its own betrayal, still finds a way
to knife you behind my eyes.

Read more from Issue No. 23 or share on Twitter.