by Tawanda Mulalu

Again to open our eyes with the light against us: this
window now a rhombus on the carpet. It is the sun.
It is no longer in space. It is not even alive. My eyes are—
and attend to each brightened thread of carpet as sprouts
splitting earth. The sky is so good today, so good that even
inside here, it makes itself by our feet. Step in it. Escaping
our sky under exhausted flames would only reveal more sky,
all around us, everywhere, with only a little bit of us within.
Some nights, the moon is unavailable to be made by the sun.
Mirrors being unreliable, much like our skulls to ourselves,
are light-thieving liars—No, don’t eye us. Touch me here.
As on a warm night, another’s eyes make you with their touch.
As one warmer night, they stop looking. You disappear.
As one summer night, you made your mother after flooding
from her. Your foamy eyes cried light, and she appeared.

 Poem copyright 2025 by Tawanda Mulalu. All rights reserved.

See more poems from Tawanda Mulalu on The Fight & The Fiddle: “Child,” “Sheffield,” and “Dal Niente.”

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Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt