Once known for the colors of its cliffs,
red sandstone contrasted with canyons
of green trees, people photograph
their auras there now. I should have asked
you to take a photograph with me,
should have told you it would make me laugh
to pretend that overexposed film
exposes our true natures on acetate.
But who asks for things they need? And,
what does an aura look like
anyway? Maybe like a new-age version
of all those saints
painted in their almonds of light—
mandorlas, you know?
Those full-body halos
that highlight the holy body
next to one only secularly significant,
a shadow beside the glow. Maybe
I didn’t ask because I knew
what I’d see, the chiaroscuro
of your aura leaving your pores,
love leaning away from me.
Anastasia Nikolis, PhD is an Assistant Professor of English at St. John Fisher University. Her academic research focuses on confession and secrecy in post-1945 American poetry, with special interest in poetry and the public humanities. In her creative writing, she explores the intersections of visual art, place, and the body. You can find her work in LIT Magazine, Birdcoat Quarterly, Arkansas International, and the Tampa Review.