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

pill-on-your-tongue-

because-you-suck-at-swallowing.

The entire world is an oven 

left on overnight. In the morning, 

I am the only figure without a shadow.