See the walls change from white to thick yellow, the colors naming themselves over the slow and turning day. In gathering places, go and greet the light from which you came.
Turn out streetlights— we should not be so afraid of each other that we wash the sky of its milky way, of its stories that created us. Listen to the Hopi— your life follows the arcing sun from birth to darkness.
Let go of the horizon. Where you came from, the aperture of your eye is grounded by buildings.
Cross the Painted Desert, rise up into the crater, one of the sites of your conception. See yourself. Open your arms. Bring down the sky.
Karen Schubert lives with her daughter in Youngstown, Ohio, a former steeltown full of artists and healing land. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Fifth Wednesday, Zoland Poetry, Redations, Reconfigurations, and 42opus. She is this year’s poetry editor for Whiskey Island Magazine.