Alina Happy Hansen

Where are the eyes? the eyes

of the dead, watching from

the darkness. A flame erupts,

ignites the iris, reflecting back.

I sink, and

welcome

the cold water,

rising up to my neck

and over.

Sun turnstiles

and I am revolving

around you. In orbit,

you do not glow, glitter,

or emanate a light source,

life source. You are a moon,

created out of cataclysm, but

reflecting light nonetheless

you are the center.