Ororo Shares a Moment With Herself
In the morning, they’ll be in the air.
Invisible, untraceable, lost to all
but themselves. Tonight she is in bed.
Gripping her top sheet. Biting her pillow.
She does not think of Charles, rising
from his wheelchair for a brush of her flesh.
Scott Summers does not slip from Jean’s
sleeping arms to sweat into Ororo’s thighs.
Her fingers are not lightning. Her breath is
not wind. She is alone. She makes alone so
good. She shudders to no one’s skill but her own.
This, she thinks, is blackness.
This, what blues her eyes.