“Aperture” by Abigail Byrd-Stapleton
On visiting The Garden of the Gods,
Colorado Springs, CO
I imagine I ask God for a sign; an inspiration
and instead of a heavenly host,
a single meteorite no bigger
than a poppy seed sears
through the atmosphere,
like a bullet from Raphael’s
ancient gun, and tears
a cauterized hole, right
through my trembling chest.
I imagine fashioning a ring,
a hoop of soft gold;
something fine enough
to burnish itself as it moves
across my skin; something
to weave through the wound,
something to anchor the restless heat
down to.
I look at the stars; so light-hearted I can hardly breathe, this hollow gorge
in my lung, aching with the residue
of glowing
Strangers look through this hole in my chest, no
bigger than the aperture of a candy-striped milkshake straw.
strangers look to find directions
to the places they had forgotten
losing in the first place. Strangers look to find
war and reading and ingredients for dinner.
even here, I am all eggshell-
coloured walls; cracking up so easy
under the wayward-left-hook-thought. Yes, even here, I worry
that the lens I let the light through is muddied with
insides; I am chock-full of dandelion silk and
creek scum and most days it is all just leaking out of me
like a stammer.
O, delicately carved sky, O, sandstone lace teach me how to be wordless.
About Abigail Byrd-Stapleton
She/Her/Hers
Abigail Byrd-Stapleton is an artist and poet from Paintsville, Kentucky. She currently lives in rural Missouri with her spouse and small zoo of pets, but enjoys traveling throughout the sprawling West when given the chance. You can check out her work at https://abigailcbyrd.wixsite.com/writing or follow her on Instagram @Abigail_not_abbi.