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  • I walk through broad strokes of sun,
    wheat bent over, women carrying
    bundled sheaves, trees dark
    in the distance. At the edge
    of the field, he sits, crumpled,
    still, and filled with light. I sit
    beside him, look out over the late
    afternoon, over the stubbled fields,
    the roughened skin of soil.
    In his dark wild eyes,
    for one moment, I see galaxies
    colliding, shining cities of darkness
    crumbling. His gaze returns
    to his palette, to the field beyond
    his work. I finger an obsidian chip,
    feel the edge of its glassy smoothness,
    the darkness of his implosion. A black hole
    flowers at the center of his soul.
    The bottom of my sleeve, the hem
    of my dress, my hair blow toward him.
    A great light radiates from his darkness,
    illuminates the coming night.


    published in Montserrat Review
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