Chapel, 4 pm

Spine pressed against
a pew, I eyed the sun.
Light split on my lids,
like in microscopes,
and under fists.
It hung on my lashes,
floaters bobbing
in vitreous humor,
like diatoms on fire.
Filaments split and decomposed,
spontaneously generating
purple. And behind the purple,
marigold, roaring through
the phases of eclipse.
White fire worked arcs
unbending like skeletal
petals, sprung from a few
dead specks–
magnified and glorified,
fragmented and polarized,
kaleidoscopic, cobalt-green,
gaseous, red-flecked
sight. The sun withdrew
to the west and I
was left with my pew
and colored panes.
But I thank You,
for I might have gone blind,
staring at Your substance
on my lashes

Ellen Orner

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