By Rachel Lynne Sakashita

This is that little star by your skylight
window, fading away at sunrise,
promising to return in fuller glory.
This is awe of the earth’s rotation
and all the souls that rotate with it.
This is a comet and a longhand letter.

This is your doctor, and I’m sorry,
but your universe might not pull
through, and we’ve tried all we can.
This is an earthquake you slept
through, but actually, it killed someone—
this is the guilt of forgetting in five minutes.

This is light with no choice, pervading
everything, leaving nothing untouched
unless you close your whole heart up.
This is its burn and pierce and sting
that doesn’t let you keep your secrets.

This is you, pulling back all the curtains, anyways.

About the Author

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