Analysis of Light by Grace Q. Song
When our thighs are slick with saltwater
we slip on flip flops and mercy. She runs
toward the blinking fair, only sixteen
and skinny. I watch the lights devour her
in sharp angles. Neon never lies, but I can’t
remember her body, the one she shed
last winter. I don’t tell her this. Too much of us
hold our minds inescapable, like an iron night.
Half a ferris wheel later, we sway
in this strange anchor, each capsule
a lone, bright cell. I pop the top
of my Bud Light and drink
glass shards stuck in my throat. I’m sorry
I love in dishonest ways, told myself
I’d love her more in the dark. I was wrong
about the time I thought she’d die
the time she closed her eyes and fell—
head hitting the edge of the bathtub. Listen.
Full moons lead baby sea turtles back home
but a car’s blinking tail snaps their spine in two.
Like them, we’ll die with our eyes glowing
in hunger or bone-white confusion.
