Can You?

Can You?

"Can you keep a secret?" the light asks,
breaking in a blast through the squares of window,
through the glass, to set its fingers on her,
to grasp at every part it can reach, every strand of hair
as they separate in the sudden heat.

Face, eyes, chin, lips,
the light fondling, dripping over, down,
then to the neck, the collar bone's delicate, deep bowl,
over every inch of skin that is exposed.
She looks up cautiously, hesitant at first
not understanding the glow she begins to feel.

And then, accepting, she holds her arms out to it,
drops her head back as if floating,
unbuttons her dress for it, lets it drop like petals --
the inner all exposed.
She, in that moment, completely gold.

And as if answering the light's plaint,
its immediate, fervent need,
she crosses to the door, opens it
and walks out for and to it
and touches it, that rawness,
as it touches her.

"No," she says.
"I will tell the world how I feel".

Erich von Hungen (he/him) currently lives in San Francisco, California.
His writing has appeared in The Colorado Quarterly, The Write Launch, The Ravens Perch, From Whispers To Roars, Ink Drinkers, Versification, Dewdrop, Sledgehammer, and others. He has written four books of poetry, the most recent being "Bleeding Through:  72 Poems Of Man In Nature".