New Light

Sometimes the light reflecting from a car’s
fender casts the shadow of the grit it’s gathered
on the wall you’re sitting against; your shadow
rises out of one corner of the light, an apparition.

Many times, I’ve held my hand up to a glaring
patch of light and moved backward, keeping
the shadow of my hand in the circle. The hand
grew and grew until I backed into the source–
a hole in the curtain, the soda can in the window–
and my fingers were as big as arms on the wall.

You lean closer to the lamp and the whole room
shifts color a little. The white of the wall nearby,
you realize, has turned a bit more the color
of your own flesh, your face shining like the moon.