On the Particularities of Light etc
I’ve worn out this self, bruised my own body just for a word or a gesture. I have misspelt my own name all in the hope of a summer sky. Then autumn began to splinter the leaves and I thought: home may be what we call a burning thing.I forget what I’ve learnt and forget why I’ve written and grip onto you until my hands turn motes, turn coffee cold, turn I avoid my own grief till I’m laughing and submerged in it.
And when you come to me like a premonition or a long-forgotten poem, I begin to hope again. Which is to say: hold me famished. Which is to say: today I scare so easily. Which is to say: haul this hurt with me. When and if I mirror the girl I was in the nightmares, and take more than I can return, then: wake me gently. Then: stay with her.
I ask you to remember for my sake, the ways in which I have mastered the art of staying; I bring you a poem by Dickinson that goes: I am afraid to own a body, and beg you not to ask why.
Where did you put the candle I gave you?
Its body barren, beige, bent in beauty;
And are you willing
To lend the light?