by Kimberly Gibson-Tran

ἦν δὲ ἡ ἰδέα αὐτοῦ ὡς ἀστραπὴ (Matthew 28:3)

A crack in the crypt, that jolt
against mortality, the way the iris
closes in. The air is a marriage
of mud and the fine fine dust
that spills in with the morning.
The women left with their ointments,
caught up in the idea of lightning—
This is why I walk gravely,
why I look, expectantly, around,
why I pick up my feet and hold
my breath. The idea of a breach,
that being perched on the stone
striking my life.

Kimberly Gibson-Tran holds two degrees in linguistics and has writing appearing or forthcoming in Baltimore Review, The Bombay Literary Magazine, Passages North, Third Coast, Reed Magazine, Rowayat, and elsewhere. Raised by missionaries in Thailand, she now lives in Princeton, Texas, and works in college counseling. Kimberly is @kdawn999  on Instagram and BlueSky.