I much prefer the light of other suns,
already embedded in our skin,
from which these hands and eyes are made,
the light that moves within our veins
and flashes and sparks through the lobes
and fissures folded into our skulls.
I much prefer the light of other suns
that flared and burned and turned their atoms
into the calcium you coalesce around
in planes and curves and soft sighs
on an afternoon drifting into night;
the heavy light condensed into flesh
and water, the smoky taste that lingers
on the tongue for days after you’ve gone.