top of page
First light slices the fuchsia peony, fallen and set adrift—it lands, holds the edge the looking can't enter.
Cracking the skin, the lit side of the soft surface, a strong heat wells up, arranging itself.
The pearl of light feeds. It roots in the wet interior, ferments, doubles, spores along the veins—and what was illumination becomes appetite, the petal metabolizing.
A suede skirt drops. Flush, luminous from the inside out, a pressure unfurling against the foil until the shell is just the husk it grew past.
What craved its luminescence splits, and looks.
bottom of page