If I am half of you

who am I alone,

what is a body?


Sea stars make

new arms,

they have to

reach away






old mystery,

forms from





mindless of I,

drawing shapes

in the shadows.





We named you before we knew you,

as it is our nature to do,
for from your form
alone we cannot grasp

the outline of your future path.


Even orchids have clumsy

families and orders
that fill our mouths
with consonants, vowels,

leaving no likeness


of beauty divergent,

peculiar and plain.

The scalloped lips

open to quietly defy

this word we say,
the unknowable name.






Here is no map only
a compass of spiritless stars.

Cast your eyes in a black pond

to trace and carve your gods.


I imagine you sent out

into the wilderness

drawing lines in the pitch

as the stars flick on,


a canopy of animals

you croon to sleep,

content as yet to

dream no dreams.





I emit a cry. Reverse time:

reverberated echoes pitch into

my canals as I fly. The vibrations


of location are constantly unstable;
they hurtle through fog with blinding

speed. Sable ears eat and in my constant


need to see shape, I repeat and repeat

my sight cry until I think I might die,

my leathery arms beating the black


expanse of a hole­punched sky.

Pinpricks of light leak in where

I have been. Deaths fill my will;


I am insatiate and hunger during
the night. Nocturnal, my flight is

drunken. In one moment I have risen


and sunken, snatching bits of cloth

from the air. They taste of sheets.

They are white, flaky sweets, heated


snowflakes that moisten and ripen
to the blooming delight of the taste buds.

Such snippets flood the senses


in dose after dose, all asunder.I wonder

if I’ve made a blunder and am feasting on

the ghosts of fluttering flowers,


unfurling under these pale moonlit hours.

I’ve scoured the night with a consuming

sight, crying out and devouring


throughout the night from a dizzying

height; yet I sense a presence that is

a gift to me, that could be my


eyes where I flap blindly. Why

does she hurdle ahead at a lone

street lamp? Her hundred eyes


remain dry in this dread damp

that stains the air, that melts

in particles, kissing, touching,


nowhere. She is shaped like

whiteness fair, a single tissue tutu

dancing in wet air: a violent ballet,


a lovely display. She seems
to have no ears, only two curves,

two limb­like antennae. I should


consume her and mate her senses

to mine. She would hear; I would

not be blind.



I am a dusty aerialist; flakes
of me flutter residually; I am not

a fusty imagist. I do not mold.


I do not believe I shall grow
so old, and I am dry. You will never
see me cry, you will never see me green.


I am not spiteful, I am not mean.
I am a light white thing, with albino

gypsy wings that wander in cycles


and seem to swing crazily towards

this beam, this electric moon. It hums

to me constantly and I am wired,


I am all fired up by its promise of stability.

It is a spark, dangling in a bowl of glass

from a metal rod. It is a god against the


dark mass of sky, and I wonder why

I am not allowed to fly inside if I

am pure and dry. I have not cried.


I have been the shape of blankness.

An unused tissue leaves no residue;

purity is the most sincere frankness.


Give me this death, this light, this

bliss I flit my many eyes against,

knocking wildly and yes, I’ve sensed


that the filament in it is trapped. It is

shocking to me it can adapt in its

glass, but I cannot get in to live


or die, to be loved or be dried, and I

would try. Flickering, flying, I imagine

love is like dying, an all­-consuming


lightness that will descend into

falling. In-­between the daze
I think I feel him calling:


a sound overtakes me, a metallic

luster that shakes me more to the

core than any quake. I split into


levels that tremble and shiver

at variations and intervals, in

colors: shining blues and reds,


mostly, watercolor slews in my
head, transparent and ghostly.
I’ve been diluted, my wings are muted.


I fall to the call. It is always in me,

it has always been me, or I’ve never

been loved at all.



He comes; he is all tongue.

I am lidless, I cannot close

my eyes. This wetness must


be forced tears; I flake the

dust of damp fears—this is

what it means to cry.


Gleaming gleaned at this point:

Impaled on the clenched teeth.
In the air, all is fair, with a whole


world beneath. This is the above
love, the consummation in great heights.

See the whirring of trailing lights.


I love you, I hate you,

I want you, I take you,


I kiss you, I break you,

I spit you, I ate you


I am in you
( you are in me )

I cocoon you

( you can spin me )


Caught and drunk in the draught,

sunk and sought in the tongue
of a speechless yet mindful thought­-


this is the falling of loving and dying.
I have been spun inside of love, have not
been above it or outside it as I thought.


I am caught and dried. I have died as
I have fallen into a light love; this bliss
of a dark spark is one we two are not above.



Myra Pearson is an American poet from Blacksburg, Virginia. Her work has appeared in the Boston Poetry Magazine and Chiron Review and she was nominated for the 2015 Pushcart Prize. Currently she lives in Korea and teaches at Duksung Women’s University.


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Cover Photo: Joana Coccarelli (