Poem by Emily Isaacson
Gemini
I.
In unity we are inseparable,
indissoluble, indivisible: the cream baby’s breath,
whispering a prayer for the devout.
The meter of tones and semitones,
iron and clay,
strong and regimented paired with healing.
A wreath of balsam, berries sequential,
and nature bows its burnished head
with bureaucratic respect
to institute some deeper sacrifice
than dark and the beauty of oil—then death.
I rise again.
I am a candle.
I am one million burning
before the year is through—burning in the windows,
lit because this country will not be ruled
by fluorescence.
Light a candle in the Old World
by the wailing wall,
shield it from the wind.
So they lit candles
in beeswax, soy, and paraffin.
