I remember sitting at my childhood table
eating my daily cereal, when the sky
opened up, its astonished edges
marked by the absent beams where our ceiling
once was. The kitchen’s frame
wobbled, its light-
weight walls no longer held fast by the roof, and the sunlight
spilled onto the table.
I looked up past the exposed frame
to what seemed my own square of sky
kneeling down through the lifted ceiling
to feather the edges
of my experience, till then edged
with careful walls, with even the light
kept in order and at bay. But I knew of stained glass ceilings,
jewels poured down on feasting tables
and soaring buttresses pointing somewhere north of sky.
a life implies containment; to frame
your words requires care. Both ways of hedging
your bets. If you ask the sky
how it feels to be ravished by light
it will say it isn’t able
to place a ceiling
on loving and being loved. And we have no calling
to hold apart our fragile frames
when we lie together on the table
making a meal of our kisses. Your hair is edged
with the last light
of the swooning sky
and as the dark diffuses down, the sky
tilts its sighs towards the vanishing ceiling.
these bodies, how fast these frames
tip towards the edge
of time and table.
Let’s table time, the distance between ceiling
and sky, the frame
that marks the edge of light.
Copyright 2015 Carrie Myers, originally published in “Re-Imagining Theologies: Asian / – Americans and Faith.” March 28-May 15, 2015, at the Walls-Ortiz Gallery and Center