In waning light
“If our leg or arm offend us, we covet by all means possible to redress it; and if we labour of a bodily disease, we send for a physician; but for diseases of the mind, we take no notice of
them . . . We are torn in pieces by our passions, as so many wild horses.” — Robert Burton, (1577–1640)
Where the sun bends
it shatters.
Where the body breaks
it speaks.
There is no measure
that keeps our silence,
no glad noise to mark
the dark, starved places
that blur our being.
Once I was eager
to remain
behind the door
that blocks the light,
content to peer through
the cracks into
the sound of others
pain.
Do not think, beloved
that I will do so, again.
We are made of more
than endings
and tangled years.
There are sicknesses that cure
the sick,
crimes that reconcile
the criminal to himself.
Only when the wound
opens can we bend.