Fractured before we are born.

Shattered, maybe crazed at the end.

In between all is light and luminaria,

except in the northern reaches of New Mexico

where the Tradicionalistas insist on lighting

small fires in the farolito lined streets,

causing dark spots before my bedazzled eyes.

Rattled by your flashing badge,

red and blue over and over again,

what can I do but plead guilty

in the face of this third degree light,

mend the chipped surface of my conscience,

and behave as if nothing happened on the way

to pick up the cake at the bakery –

its tens of candles sparkling

like stars hanging on the lip of sky over the Sargasso Sea.

The same sea our ancestors feared for the monsters

harboured in its darkness as they lay at anchor

under a gibbous moon in all their mothic finery.

When the air clears and all the gifts have been opened,

we see our glass etched by the spider’s web,

we see that fashions change,

and the brighter candles burn the less we see.

 

 

 lights are on at the dVerse prompt night