Pari Elora

Light’s Terms

Again, and earlier than yesterday.

Before the kettle, before the day,
before I'm anyone's,
I take her from the drawer
and hold her to the window—
the only light there is

to see her.

I look for the left eye first—
the one that always knew before I did,
that used to close a little when I lied.  

I love her face, so I look at it most.

I have looked it thin.

I think it is helping.

I turn her to find the mouth,
the one that still had
the other words in it.

My thumb goes to hold the corner
and the corner is gone.

My thumb knows before I do.

I press her to the glass.
I keep her as I was kept—
only for the looking.

I press. Harder.
To be sure.

My fingers find more glass than her,
and I take it for nearer.

The cheek goes to light.
The brow lets the room come through—

the sill, the latch, the cold square of morning,
the wall her face used to keep me from.

The room begins
where her face was.

There is so little of her left
to come between us.

I lay her face-down in the dark
that keeps what the light has not reached.

Tomorrow there is less of her.

I am almost finished

finding her.

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Pari Elora is a poet and writer born in India. Her work has appeared in Light Poetry Magazine and Sky Island Journal. She is at work on her first chapbook.