Refracted

You must start here,

six feet away—not because you may be given something unwanted—

because hands that are too close

sometimes get hurt.

Nonetheless, here you are, among this peculiar exhibition,

ready to learn your patterns.

---

“So—“ I start, “tell me why you’re here.”

---

A pose is struck.

And you shatter.

(You’re glad you had some space.)

---

The mind

is then scattered glass

on asphalt.

---

Refracted states

of the soul

spill themselves at our feet.

(Prismatic reds and yellows

glimmer.)

---

And you come to understand yourself a bit more.

Just.

Like.

That.

In pieces.

---

My eyes flicker.

---

My, you gasp, shielding your eyes,

I—I. . . your voice trails off.

Yes, I know. It’s hard to describe.

---

Sheer will

and courage (which is to say vulnerability)

and hope make the soul stretch its limbs.

Immediately, you think you see

an ice blue silhouette,

and that’s okay

because you continue

to be warmed by

my reds and yellows,

which is to say my soul,

which is to say the fire that is me.

(It is you too.)

---

My eyes flicker again.

---

And I am

the rising sun,

the relentless fire,

the patient guide.

---

You admit the warmth makes you

say more than you intended.

You settle further in your seat.

---

“Tell me more about that.”

---

I am the healer.