Lightning is fingering through the sky everywhere but here.
A three hundred and sixty degree storm
and we’re a needle in the eye.
If I knew how to write about love or god
this is where I’d begin. A couple standing back-to-back
watching separate sides of a storm.
Ours is the double horizon. Earth and sky joined by a buckle
of light. The translation of my body— smooth and round,
firm as an egg. Wrapped in currents of rain and wind.
Justina Wiggins (she/her) is a graduate of the Bennington College MFA Writing Seminars and is a multigenerational caregiver living in Baltimore. She shares a home with her rambling family, where they pack the house with as many fairy tales, and as much laughter, as they can fit beneath the eaves. She writes from the crossroads of motherhood and womanhood— both have sharpened her teeth, called to her with green throats, and asked her to recast the myths of her mothers.