By Sage Cohen
In my devotion, the candle was dumb.
It came to me in birds.
It came to me scuffed with thrust.
It came to me withered, split.
It came to me silent as a knife, fat with treasure.
It was a feather pluming my plow,
a borrowed dress dragged to dust.
In my absence, I could not find the husk.
Shame sailed its own boats.
Moat and drawbridge, I sent my hair down.
The instructions unraveled until I was one less
person than I promised to be.
The harp would lessen my fall. It pawed
my lap like every good story. It gulped light.
Threaded with regrets, each column stands
for forgiveness, bends like a bride toward
the disappointment of her promise.
The prayer unspoken. My body
as surprising as morning before
it is broken open.