When the Light Shifts

written By

On the back of my hand, thick purple lines beneath

thin skin. Branches of a golden oak.

 

The road less taken, the one that bleeds.

I raise my arms, legs rooted on the tile floor

 

cold in the bathroom, breathe the heat. Always

faces in the gray tile, looking at me. Ghost of the past.

 

I am the tree. Fingers thick, wide, my father’s fingers are    mine. Roots or rivers,

 

I can’t tell which. The map changes when the light shifts. When I was fourteen,

I fell in love with basketball

hands, I wanted the arms.

I’m brown  I’m purple

I’m pink – I didn’t have

words for love.

I still don’t.

Author

  • Maria Caponi was born and grew up in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She has a Ph.D. in physics and a certificate (with distinction) in creative fiction writing from UCLA. She's the author of An Accidental Pilgrim, a memoir in prose and verse. Maria is currently working on a collection of poetry and personal essays.

    Caponi

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