There was no light farther than the light you tossed out before me the day I wailed and crashed through a cervix hoping to catch it but before I clutched it tightly in hungry fingers some dear doctor caught me.
What I didn’t know then but that I know now was that the glow I was so starving for was not a glow of me but a glow of who I could be
so I could not catch it then.
And through many years of running and tumbling and throwing a body into dark into bending into pretzel shapes and screaming shoulder bones and back arcs the day came when the light fluttered like a bee through my open window and beckoned me with words sweet
—Now it’s time.
So I reached out and out and out and then passed the light by and went right to the window and looked out, and out and out and out and there was the dark, all wild and wondrous and roaring and heavy like rainfall I descended forward back into the night and left the light in my bedroom, all alone.
I walked the road until I didn’t remember my name anymore or my life or that light or my death to someday be and into the musty wood I roamed with the purpose of becoming so lost I could feel at
home. Cupped in the sightless arm of what raised me. I looked up, knowing you were wondering, knowing you were thinking. I told you then
—You can take it back. I don’t require it, any longer.
And I was suddenly
And like a serpent from skin I shed away all the night and there was only
the light. The forgiveness of sin.