Rising Son | a poem by Alex Herstedt

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Soft grey feeling

unfolding

overwhelming

light, painful light

threatening to burst

against my ribs.

 

The trapped boy

has picked the lock

and stretches

against the sun.

The wicked sun,

your wicked son

is rising,

pulsating

against my fingertips

is me.

Boyish fingertips

placing cold

kisses

on cold glass.

Let us open up

this window,

reaching out,

reach in.

For now

I don’t want

to go through the world,

but for the world

to go through me.