Studying the ceiling
tracing the migration patterns of angels there
along the fractured boundary of imagination
(a place where they love to kneel and drink)
I set traps; yes, I have sunk that low.
But I have to tell you—it is beautiful to see
that torn gossamer streaming like the spun sugar
we used to pull off paper wands at the parish fair, the magic
of its abrupt crimson color when the strands met
the sweat of our eager fingers, our stained tongues.
My sister would pinch off small puffs and brush her nail tips
like we saw mom do, or powder my face
leaving a rouge web across my cheeks.
It’s like that, just like that,
easing their fine wretchedness from the snare
in glittering strands, ingesting their brilliance,
licking my lips with a grotesque sort of satisfaction.
Judith Solano Mayer is a Pacific Northwest transplant with an ancient history in physical science. She enjoys the porosity of the multiverse and tries to incorporate its character into her poetry whenever possible.