By Emilee Petersmark

If I close my eyes

To keep the light out--

Artificial luminence that

Burns like a drug--

The world drops dead.

Instead I shall be crucified

Upon a cross of stars,

The five points scoring deep

Into perfect, sacrificial skin.

You cannot see

The torn wings, unable to fly,

Flimsy as wet paper

and twice as fragile.

See me falter

See me fall

See my darkness sizzle upon

Your burning alter.

The world will die,

Not through mortal conquest

Or divine reckoning,

But by my own defeated eucharist.