by Lisa Raatikainen

I wanted them to see in me a certain
light: a secondary hue that swerves on
past one purity through to some other,
depending on the viewer.

Invited to envision my aura,
one (a drinker) suggested wine
while another thought the void sky
of a January afternoon.

To paint light, mused a third, requires
the blunt refusal of line for gradient—
from him I learned to squint
and so discern in the eye-locked lovers

a negative hum of space
in the shape of an hourglass.

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Lisa Raatikainen is a writer, poet, and choir director who holds degrees in religion and biology. Her poetry has appeared in Five South, Whale Road Review, Moist Poetry Journal, 3 Elements Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Burlington, Vermont with her family.