folding your body
into the nest
between my lap and chin,
a book in your tulip hands,
you are jasmine scent
and a glint of gold.
page after page
smiles back at you:
smudged watercolors,
brilliant primary figures,
sharp, cheerful photos,
and yet?
on many a page
your eye falls
on the negative space
where the images
aren’t:
“dark,”
you say, hushed,
pointing,
like you respect it.
dark,
dark,
dark again.

what do you see there
in the unchanging black,
in the blue with shadows?
what impulse of the brain
leads you to look beyond
a sparkle of pink and orange,
into the void?
and are you not unsettled by this?
no.
you stare into the dark,
inquisitive, defiant, almost.
it is limitless and warm,
and i envy you that.
you don’t yet know,
you can’t yet know,
dark
in three dimensions.
and for as long as possible,
i won’t allow it.