Parhelia Jackie Bartley Three weeks without sun, and on the table, as if open and close had been a single thought, a blood red carnation keens on its stalk toward the broken, anemic light of the kitchen window. Miniature refractive bubbles pearl the stem's lower half immersed in water, the flawless yearning of matter to make more matter, though buds on either side of the flower will not open but remain poised as if ready to kiss the friable edges of petals like the icy twins of borrowed light that sometimes blossom on either side of the sun. Jackie Bartley lives on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan where she teaches writing and creates poetry.