Essay On Coming Back Home
I once pressed a sharpie into my palm with such force
it took three days to wash out. I left everything behind,
and went east along an unpaved road
with no end
and found that I had gone nowhere,
and that nothing had changed
except the color of the trees
and the sound of the leaves crunching beneath my feet.
So yes – I know – I’m chipping away at a mountain.
But once I watched an eclipse with the family
I didn't choose, and for some reason
everything was alive, and made sense
in the shadow of the dancing sun and moon:
a tiny, shimmering ink blot in the sky.
So when I say things are different now,
what I really mean is that, no, nothing
has really changed, but
with enough impatience
anything can last forever,
I ran my hand along his naked side and stopped
at each rib to pray,
and sometimes – if the timing’s right –
the word God escapes my mouth,
and it’s not faith
or even love that causes this.
No, it is nothing. Nothing at all
except what is:
darkened by a brighter light.