by Shyla Jones.
CW: kidnapping, non-consent
Lindz McLeod’s “Heavenly Bodies” beams in the strangest, best way. Paired with sublime language, McLeod explores a woman who keeps the sun—or, well, a sun—trapped in her lonely home. We meet Joanna who lives next door to a nosy couple that are too interested in their neighbor’s fresh tan and “impenetrable” full body clothing. What they don’t know is that inside Joanna’s kitchen blares her own personal, illegal sun.
She straps on safety goggles. The light spills out from every inch of the doorway, a
tsunami of visual force. Despite the eyewear, which is the kind physicists wear, she
blinks until her eyes become more accustomed. She isn't sure what kind of damage
repeated contact might be doing to her body. She's got a great tan, at any rate.
Regular clothing doesn't prevent it. Maybe the sun is giving her cancer. Maybe she
doesn't really care.
From the start of “Heavenly Bodies,” you get the feeling that something is wrong, but you can’t quite figure out what. Kidnapping the sun should be a good thing, right? Having your own personal sun seems fun, doesn’t it? Throughout the piece, McLeod weaves dreamy, celestial words with gritty and a tough subject matter. By the end, you’ll feel as if the sun swallowed you too.