Monica Mankin

In Direct Light

Forgetting the sheaves of darkness that collect
beneath their bed, behind his paintings,

beneath her eyes, she learns to love him
even when his skin sears against hers; her scars

as vibrant as fields he’s brushed in red bloom
on canvas. She’s a color wheel, spinning

opposites of softly blackened plums,
red-blooded blackberries, black rinds

of knuckles smeared on skin.
Her hair, fiery angstroms,

shadows her face; her face all milk, all cloud,
or bone. In the white of his eyes, she sees

every color reflected, achromatic, bright.
She ignores the darkness bleeding from the center.

She sees instead with the fisted braille of the hands
that leave both their eyes shining.

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