M J Young

Light Damage

My lover was over again, came in from the rain
and left before it eased. In my living room, in his absence,

I watch the haze of a dawning doused world, a rainbow,
a fragile covenant conjured from light. This morning

I’m remembering my phone, photographs and flash
and the effects of being exposed, the shock of brightness

from the lightning through my blinds last night; I’ve yet
to get curtains for my bedroom. Weeks ago at the history museum

I saw paintings of Florida birds on a dim shelf before a sign
explaining the low lighting illuminating the prints

is for their protection, to prevent wear. These birds are rare,
rotated regularly, routinely replaced in the dark. I took

no pictures. Along with the lightning, my apartment wasn’t
dark when he was there: the flush mount kitchen fixture whose

bulb I haven’t replaced though it flickers; the fluorescent tube
over my bathroom sink that illuminated his wet hair;

the nightlight I still use with its palm-sized shade and yellow
shine and thumbwheel switch. In their glare I was a Florida

bird, something overeasy to flit or fade if examined full on.
It’s difficult to imagine taking these steps into the light,

this secondary introduction. I wanted to venture into the drizzle,
approach the prismatic arc as if it were something to touch and hold

onto, but I could already feel the damp jeans, dripping hair,
and wet socks. It wouldn’t be worth it. It’s easy to imagine

the conservators after hours, by nightfall, LEDs switched off,
giving the birds temporary flight in the gloom. Yesterday,

after we had eaten and caught up, we saw the other
fully for the first time. Nothing happened—only the faintest

of brushes—the looks more indulgent, born from the swaths
of light made by my blinds and the flashes and passes of cars

outside my bedroom window, exposing me to my lover, making me
wish to hide between the beams though I fear the lack of light.

In my living room I watch as the sun climbs too high, the bands
of color softening into air—light lost in light—but here I stand.

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M J Young is a writer and MFA student at Florida International University, where he is a graduate instructor and the Poetry Editor of Gulf Stream Magazine. He's also a poetry reader for Dishsoap Quarterly. His poetry can be found in Ninth Letter, phoebe, The Penn Review and elsewhere. In his free time he enjoys listening to Philip Glass and exploring bookstores. He can be found on Instagram @mjyoungwrites.