AN INFINITE PATH TOWARDS THE SUN

Reve Rubio

In my chest, an intruder 

in the flesh—a vision at once 

piercing through and bruising 

as a blunt knife to a fruit. 

The point is 

an arrow pointed outwards, 

to forever-distant elsewhere, 

or to the sun if the sun 

were always setting— 

The last light in a near-death sky. 

Move fast enough and you can do this. 

By this I mean run after the sunset, 

and by this I mean in lieu 

of blood and bone, a vector chasing

an image of home. Many things 

can look like home, from a careful enough 

angle. Let the light in slant and see. 

And this, I think, is what brings me 

here—and later there—that pull 

in the center, first to perfect posture 

then back to a valley-curve, 

still wrong but at least 

the other way round. 

These are the cravings of my heart, 

which are also the chambers of my heart. 

So much want making a wish of me: 

There is my shape, you see, light-aberrated, 

stretched in keeping with the parallax, 

and then there is the straight blade of an arrow 

lodged deep in my heart, sharp 

as a lost tooth. 

When I say dot in an endless history of dots 

— When I say body that is what I mean. 

All of it, to the restlessness, to the dark-eye. 

To the line stretching infinitely 

towards the sun. The truth is 

my heart wants to be proven wrong, 

to send me running 

right into the stars, 

and be burned by it. 

I want to let the light in, it cries, 

I want this want 

to be the arrow and I want it to be mine.