I stop dead in my tracks and look
up at the sky.
It’s a good thing my hands
are free because I can’t help but throw them
up towards the thick, layered clouds
there’s a small opening emitting light that
seems just within my reach
I pinch it, soft, peony-petal, fragile
like tea leaves,
I stand on my toes,
stretch my arms to distend,
make myself
longer, take up as much air
and space as
as I can
reaching a little
further, palming the glow
in my hand, skin to skin,
sturdy as hope, I remember now
the butterfly twitches,
the honey-warm mold
sensation glowing through
my swollen flesh
brittdigiacomo.com 