This poem is an ode to those who brighten up grey, gloomy, late-morning classrooms; those who manage to exude radiance where there is none; those who glow in the dark.
I heard about your secret: that after you’ve switched off your light,
your skin becomes phosphorescent. I heard that you glow in the dark.
Your neighbors report that your room becomes a planetarium at night.
I heard about your neon fingernails. I heard that their fluorescence drips off,
breathing bright life into the sentences you write. The letters begin to swim into
the pulp of the paper, becoming bioluminescent, deep-sea jellyfish that loves to dive.
I heard about your LED eyelashes. I heard that when you blink, a fleeting shower,
the smashed powdery remnants of the fickle early 2000s electropop icons that you’ve
brought to shame bursts out of them as silvery glitter powder that flickers flickers flickers.
I heard about your luminous voice. I heard that when you sing, your vocal cords
glimmer and your entire throat shows it when it shimmers. Beams emanate from your lips and
they illuminate the entire room, basking it in warm gold, enveloping the floorboards.
I heard about your incandescent head. I heard that when you run a brush
through your hair, a crackle of static electricity zips through in a rush, and a gaggle
of charged particles become excited for having come into contact with you there.
And I’ve seen your fluorescent smile. When you wake up in the morning,
your teeth absorb dazzling sunlight. You carry the rays in your veins for
the entire day. In winter, it radiates even through three layers of your clothing.
When you go to sleep, the sunlight lives in you, lasting the entire evening.