I have a confession to make.
I used to think a parabola
was a different shape entirely.
Less a shape really. More a limit.
An edgeless cookie cutter.
Maybe it’s the weight of refracted light
that scares me. Each of them
on top of the other. The way
they’re there then not there.
The foreboding smell of sugar,
but more primal, more
The entire world is an oven
left on overnight. In the morning,
I am the only figure without a shadow.