Daughter of the Dark
They said I was too much of night,
too shadowed, dense, and undefined,
as if my darkness dimmed their light—
but they were cosmically blind:
the void is where the stars are signed.
I claim my kinship with the black
that holds a thousand galaxies,
the velvet background, deep and slack,
that makes each burning point a key—
without me, what would bright things be?
The Hubble aimed where nothing showed,
where emptiness seemed absolute,
and found that darkness overflowed
with ancient light en route—
I am the fertile, the hirsute.
They wanted me diluted, bland,
a paleness easy on the eye,
but I’m the space that helps stars stand,
the contrast painting sky—
the canvas every light needs by.
So let them flinch from what I hold:
this body born of cosmic dust,
this skin like space, alive and old,
this darkness they’ve discussed—
I am the frame that beauty must.
Look long enough into my empty—
you’ll see I’m full of galaxies.
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