Nic Sattavara πŸ”ˆ

Shadow Work

I shuffle into my living room
dehydrated. New splits
on my rashed knuckles. E is sitting
on the floor: he’s not allowed
chairs or love seats. He needs
to atone, maybe, I haven’t
thought to ask. They say
there won’t be much left.
Maybe eyes, sometimes
they’ll leave eyes. I never
know if he’s speaking
to me or someone behind
the veil. He’s sitting full
lotus on my chartreuse throw
pillow. Everything matters
as much as nothing, he repeats.
I pour myself a glass of water
& notice a stink bug twitching
above the curtain rod. Too cold,
They say, too dry, probably
doesn’t have much left.
Everything matters - I sit
on the couch, disassociate
from my bodies, my eyes, feel
myself float to the high ceilings.
I’ll be here for lifetimes, E says,
and hope not to be reborn
as a slug or centipede again.
I join E on the floor, imagine
a bright light flowing through me.
It starts as a small fleck
in my chest. I imagine
it building out, flickering
through my neck, my legs.
As I breathe it expands,
My body filling with bright
white light. It extends outside
my bodies, to the living room,
to E, to the apartments around me,
to the city, to the cosmos.
Tell me about Heaven’s Gate,
I ask. Tell me about Hale-Bopp.
Tell me about star beings.

Author Reading

About the Author

Nic Sattavara is a queer writer from Michigan. They earned their MFA from the University of Alabama. Their work has appeared in temenos, Cimarron Review, and Open Palm Print.