A silver-blue star at the bottom of a glass. A blood spot:
           something shed from the body

transforms, crawls away on red wire legs. A dark spot
           blossoms on your face, tunnels inward and becomes

a blankness in your brain. Border between tonalities
           of skin. I press your body to

my face mid-ascension, reasoning we were never human,
           always foxes holding too hard to our sources

of protection. Darkening can be a trace of love. In a dust storm
           darkening can be a loss of

dimensionality. In the before of our family
           twin sisters died, one at birth the other

something to do with earthquake. Nameless halves of a swept unit.
           Salt left mid-air. Silver and silver and silver

the tear-stars flood their containment. I skip stones at the edge
           of Callao, sling language across the blue: I knew

you, I wish I knew you. A plane of water dazes
           after a stone has sunk.

I have begged the animal inside me to release
           its captive light. I have hurled this

toward you out of silence, attempting contact
           with what I will never contact

again. A body lodged
           behind the eclipse.

From The Blue Mimes by Sara Daniele Rivera. Copyright © 2024 by Sara Daniele Rivera. Reprinted by permission of Graywolf Press.