Sun Spots by Rae Iolene

Sun Spots

Writing is like the cut of a sword, but I’m twisting the knife myself. Sometimes it’s bittersweet, or witty, or strung up by golden lantern lights. The pattern of formatting structure—gone. I am either left with everything or nothing. For poetry is storytelling. The act of verbal magic. It’s holding a line too long. The sky never revealing, still as a lake. Or, the woods whispering amongst roots, free from prying eyes. But usually I find myself staring. Up, up, up. Don’t do that, mom says. Don’t stare. But the words already burn. Inward to outward. Outward to inward. The rays are too bright, like sun spots, deadening color away.

But still I write.

Still I burn.

xx. Rae Iolene

3 April 2026