Secret

these things are for the gods
for a breathing soul
can’t know how it’s held
no visible handles in its choppy planes
a shell-less egg
balanced
just
so
above a tealight

you punish for inventories kept
chastise for reveals
for confession
admission, admonition
demolition

this
the gem, the carbuncle
is not my story to tell
nor yours to cart

such, such weight
your little soul holds
such blistering now
over easy

so, murmur me, you
this infinite
mass-above-flame
and I
feather-eared, gate-teethed
will lighten you in passing

image and poetry © Alison Boyd.