The morning says nothing about her self, she keeps night in her mouth
for a long while. A streak of life in the form of birds comes across her electric wire
lips, make her sing herself again, though it still looks like she’s him.
She’s like that, Day, loves so forever that she becomes her lover.
But Night’s leaving doesn’t define her, it defines him.
How his deepest self clings to her is his only beauty.
Night, who tears her every time she’s rising, speaks in phantom
rants about her to those close enough to him
that they’ll listen, just enough
to make himself sound so sad and just about it all.
He says how crazy Day is.
But that’s not true. It never is. That’s night’s story.
Day does not tell her own, she lives it.
Day’s story is told by her radiant children;
how her light mends the broken
bones of strangers and of strays.
Day’s story is told by light: Night is a narcissist
who wants who he wants, who he thinks is beautiful
for a moment so she can reflect a beauty that he isn’t
but thinks he is .
Day Knows no one else’s beauty can be Night’s.
Beauty comes from empathy. So night is lost
(and Day looks for him).
Night wanted Day’s undivided love.
But she loves everyone. Day’s an empath
who shepherds vacuum oceans to the light;
un-tends the flock of hope
so all those big, undomesticated sheep
go everywhere they shouldn’t be able to survive.
What a mountain goat Day makes of hope!
Night left her because Day rises everywhere, for everyone, not just him.
And the birds in her he thinks mourn don’t. They sing.