LIGHT WORK

to sate your hunger you’d need fistfuls

it’s spring.
the sun falls in slabs through every window.
i want to eat the light.

everything’s returning
dew and downy wet.
i press my ear to the grass
to hear it chirp. it presses back.

this morning i found the tiniest beetle
clinging for life to the curtain.
i tried to scoop her up with my thumb
but she drifted to the ground,
unmoving
while the light stormed in.

if you can’t wait,
the youngest vegetables are now tender enough to eat.
brimming with potential, too small to fill you up.
to sate your hunger you’d need fistfuls.
you should wait.

it won’t be long.
the sun is amniotic.
these days even the dirt moves.

but i’m still hungry, so i
lick the new sweat from your shoulder.
it’s sweet and clean as a leaf.
swaths of skin, bricks of light.
where were you
all winter?

i’m waking up soon,
i promise.
already my eyes are glistening
with dew.
for all you’ve waited, i think
you will still be surprised
at my flourishing.

soon. soon, and i will set the table
with all that tender, full-leafed
light. fistfuls, armfuls.
what we can’t eat we will cook down
until it’s concentrated
as a root.

the next time i’m sick,
feed me a spoonful of light.
a syrup of sun.
the preserved and luminous
yolk.

you’re the only one i trust
to make sure it keeps.