Pink Light
after Linda Dove Once I floated in rosewater in a white bath on a weeknight, scooping handfuls of sweetness over the left shin of someone new. When I’d arrived that night he’d fed me, mussels and angel hair in marinara, grilled slabs of baguette, a thick confetti of parsley. Chilled zinfandel, rose-colored in its glasses. The clean, spicy scent at the back of his neck. The coconut truffle laced with just enough THC. After dinner in the bath the light was pink and my cheeks were pink and when I looked up I saw, through his golden chest, his heart, glowing pink. He gazed back at me, at my breasts, all cream and rose, rising from the water. He closed his eyes and sighed. This is heaven. I combed the pink clouds in my mind for evidence to the contrary. Raked the sweet haze aside, looking for a reason to leave. But there was none, or anyway, in that moment, I could not find it. Heaven, he murmured again. I kissed his damp knee. Yes.
Kate Horowitz (she/they) is a poet, essayist, and science writer in Maine. Her work can be found in tiny zines and national publications, and on tarot cards, matchboxes, and the airwaves. Find her on Twitter @delight_monger, on Instagram @kate_swriting, and at katehorowitz.net.
