Of Dark, Of Light

Dark: a kind you cannot find in cities,
mangroves bowed across the channel,
a cathedral of branches leaping from
the black to tangle your paddle, your hair.

In the lagoon, surface still but for rowing,
each dip flips nature in reverse: sky starless,
smoky with clouds, water flashing bands
of blue as the paddle glides through.

Bioluminescence, they call it, microscopic
colonies exuding light from within. This
is the science, the speech the guide has
memorized to teach and tempt the tourists.

You watch the lightning streaks of ray
and fish glow like comet tails in space
and you must believe in magic or in God
as pinwheels of blue fire explode from

your fist opening and closing beneath the
water. You dip in your arm to the shoulder,
pull it slowly out, watch it gleam, mercury
slick with its own universe, particles

twinkling then dying, and you must resist
the urge to throw yourself from the kayak,
become a moving constellation, washed
clean, a whole being made of light.

Donna Vorreyer lives in the Chicago area with her husband and son who have both become accustomed to seeing her with a journal and a pen. She is a middle school teacher and spends her days trying to convince teenagers that words are interesting and important. Her work has been published in many print and online journals including New York Quarterly, Flashquake, After Hours: A Chicago Journal of Literature and Art, and Literary Mama. (derfwad@yahoo.com)

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761