TERRI MCCORD

As if

we are marauders
of light
filaments to fill the cones
of our eyes

As if that sun is to bore
a hole through
our skin, the forehead
cool and sweatless
the sun a beam
so strong
it almost lifts us off
the ground, a rod through
the skull

The atrocities of war
light comes for us
even as it sets
tries to burn past
the eyes. The light is so
clear, it has no colour

We are giving money
to provide rest
and aromatherapy for
a whole week
to Ukrainian soldiers

As if we are marauders
of light
our skin becoming paper
nominal
our scratches disappearing