by Jio Santino Forbes Deslate

Recall the adolescent fist that took on

The bedroom wall in the mushroom cloud-

Aftermath of rejection. The same

Hand that has since felt the sting of more

Immovables still yanks window frames

In secret tantrums against his

Lessor who oiled him with phrases like

“Lots of light” and “Well-ventilated”

Perhaps it is not petulance but photophilia

The yearning to pummel the timorous

Jail-cell slits, burst open a vista

And size up the sprawling daybreak

Chest puffed and pointed to the source.

To be possessed by the morning

Is surely good (but only the early morning

When the sun stays shut in its kernel

Keeping close that energy, coiled so tight

That it could be nothing but solid

And fervent). To be zapped by that

First light, inhabited by the steady,

Reassuring heat simmering in your

Gut – a Pentecost. Surely we can

Prescribe a routine reverence,

A practiced hope if not rage at the

Faint scarlet sky taunting as matadors.

To believe for a few

Wee minutes every day that you

Can hold fire