Ice tears are dangling beneath my eyeliner again,
tinkling against the waterproof mascara of the night sky.
I don’t get tired of crystal facets, not even when I walk through
middle-class lamp showrooms where fixtures wink, “Come, dine beneath
my glittering glory. Invest in me as in a child’s education, as in a grandfather
clock, as in civilization itself.”
When my eyes get tired of costume jewelry, lit by jaundiced bulbs,
I find refreshment in another chandelier, the spectrum-splitting drops
tossed from the clouds like Mardi Gras beads to prove that beauty is no myth,
invented by 18th century poet-suicides. It’s no coincidence the sun only shows
her color when it rains. Everybody loves a chandelier.
–Sarah Torribio
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