Poetry
1 min
Laws of Reflection
Jessica McMillan
I die in calendar boxes, inked
with black holes. I forsake
organic speeds, unable to admit
light, as to admit is to confess.
In the laws of reflection, outgoing
rays equal in-coming.
I am a blackout curtain
opened a crack for updates,
for crafted futures.
I stream light in crepuscular tunnels
of a handheld device.
By the pool chair, my LED screen
tasks in surrogate tenses.
Secondhand sun beams
off the glass curtain of the building,
races through window, tangles
in waves and reflects on the ceiling
in an aqualit mosaic
where I bend in the moment,
wistful, not so much
for unreachable light
but mourning what I deflect.
When I am light
in water I am a conduit
of beam and crest.
Like crosshairs of dream
--for a moment--
I am Earth's prism
in unmitigated wavelengths.
Then I look at the clock
and exit the pool,
unreadable and corona rimmed.
I wrap the towel around me,
and become the memento mori
of the dark universe.
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