placeless

even as I stand before

the fourth station,

Christ meeting his

distraught mother,

the world looks the same

with eyes closed

or eyes open,

and I am without a home

life and imagination

are seamless

my son was always with me

before he was born

and he came to me as crystal shards

through the ceiling tiles

when my eyes were open

and he was safe in a glass bottle

wrapped in cloth that

I carried through my closed-eye dreams

if I were to seal my eyes shut

I would not miss much,

for hints thin as spider threads are seeping

and I know this world

is no better or worse than the next one

or the next one, or all of the other worlds

we borrow our children from

—heather a. hartel

light memory

You can try to replace its faceless

responsibility,

with a faceless

desire.

A slight tint.

It can wield something,

and requires no

scabbard.

An aluminum gaze,

thrashed from

your calloused

fingers.

Ten million miles

away and,

it could strike

the eye’s cones,

enduring them

with purple

circles,

dancing.

—sebastian galbo