it was a concentration of mulitudes,
an agony of angels dancing on a knife-tip.
this one pin-prick feeling that unfurled
like a slat of sunshine falling on a hardwood floor,
dusty and warm.
she would have walked on coals to keep
the kindling in her chest burning after
years of living with the insides of her own meat-locker
she decided she was free to do what she liked,
never mind the scorching of her feet. this was
a hidden room in her childhood home, a favorite
song glitched by static on an empty highway.
she saw the world banqueted before her. It
was lit with two suns, not one,
and the glow behind her ribs stuttered with every step
like an old lightbulb singing in time
with a storm.