On the way home the shadows come back -
soft voice, long hands,
I run, and bite back the cry with a prayer.
There is no other choice.
These hands curl cold in blue pockets,
my hair hangs stringily over the sidewalk.
I watch my knees,
as if there is nothing sitting heavy on my back.
I hunch over words – I need those prayers -
Light warms and sits in the middle –
my ribs cage the warmest of all fires
and pushes outward – pushes it away.
My face falls upward;
now I can breathe again.
Looking up, everything glows -
the sun pushes grey oceans
gilding half-spent November leaves against the darkness;
new pennies scattered over pavement,
fluttering like coral fishes in the dark blue sea.
Home – the key sticks in the lock,
and Arthur's sword sticks in the stone.
I try the other door – the handle is cold and open.
I feel like scrubbing something.
My elbows wrinkle, sleeved in suds;
submerged silver chimes in my fingers.
I need this right now.
You and I talk for a long time.
A stream of sun finds the basement window,
it hits a cut piece of glass hanging there
and breaks into pieces. The glass is a light-key
that opens the sun, and shards of color spread over everything,
just to let me know you heard.
