To Obscure a Body Of LightKim Young
How the girls love to believe in celestial bodies, in summer and ice, in bright disks of light. The abductor is a human creature. The creature burns like a star raging white, a constant light, the girls’ dark hair parted to the side. A young girl disappears— not in parts, not as night. The problem is not absence, but a blinding summer light. The girls like dark rail ties set down on dust so bright. The abductor winds to a stop with a pistol in his lap. Imagine such a wreck. Not the act, but the smell of gasoline. Not the shape, but a glare blazing without meaning. How the girls’ bodies grow longer and darker as the earth rotates toward twilight. The orange ball falling below the horizon line. How the girls love to believe in night—even in the white of his eyes, the whine of his machine, a single face illuminated by dash-light.
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