Light Enough

He brought the dark with him, and said, “You don’t have to be so strong all the time.”

She looked at him foreign, and replied, “It’s all I’ve known. I’ve never let anyone in on that part of me.”

“What part?”

“Every part. Because to love me is to love the world.”

He then looked at the darkness in his hands and turned it till it was light enough to fall through his fingers.


Put the coffee on, will

you, so we can talk about


how the light hits the spoons

and how your hands are a


garden when you speak.

Feel those little granules


at the bottom? That’s the end

of summer we forgot would


come, the sun lighting our voices

instead; my skin feeling like lavender


and heartbeats.  Then the bees carry

away our reason for sitting at the


table, only to hum near by with

voices we almost recognize.


I saw a black and red bird today.  I didn’t remember its name

So I settled with feeling it carried both death and love on its wings.

I wondered how heavy it felt; its feathers bending with such words

It starts to sing; such an open throat!  It asks, What do your wings carry?

I turn away, swinging the sky around my neck like a cape; stolen blue.

Wearing my reflection, it holds so much. So much.


Sometimes I feel like I’m forgetting my father.  How he used to cough like a Monday gone wrong; long and harsh.  How his laughter put the words in my books to shame.  His absence is the mix matched furniture in our living room that spoke words sounding like my childhood.  Has he forgotten me, too?  And now, I stand here with a little darkness.  An owl outside calling, spreading light.  I don’t remember it knowing my name.


My mom has a friend she visits from time to time, and I come along to get out of the house.  I sit in the car as they visit briefly and notice the old weeping willow tree across the street.  It appears to emerge gracefully from earth, with branches that hang like the last word of a prayer.  Maybe it thinks I am a lost Spring; now found, the way it reaches towards my window?  Does it know something I don’t?  And every visit I leave a human dancing slowly; tiny fingers trilling and aged, unlike my own.  Unlike my own.


I could be a fox–

Running through the fire of the morning;

Branches bend their bones to make way;

My tail brushing a sky so blue and thick;

I reach the top after a while, and just know–

This is everything.



The Light

Sometimes at night I read by candlelight like it’s this long-forgotten, secret way of reading. As if the words come alive and dance along the smoke; frolicking in the flame, carrying off the characters to another reader. It leaves the warmth of the story on my skin like patchwork; the title stitched into my veins, as if to say, everything’s alright in the world tonight.


When I was younger, my mom would always put my hair behind my ear.  She would gently take a strand, and slide it like it was a ribbon.  But I would shake my head, making my hair come loose, transforming me back.  I complained that my ears would get cold, and I liked it loose in front.

This summer will be six years without her.  Six years missing her homemade pizza.  Six years not hearing her say “I love you.”  Six years of wondering if my hair will always be as dark as hers.

On the day, I will visit her grave; the last place where we left her.  I will wonder if the eagles still wade in the air above the cemetery. I will leave her favorite flowers lightly on the grass.  I will smile, turn slowly, and walk away.  And gently tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.