What little I know of luminousness, I learned
from this: a cheerless child weaving into the night,
negotiating the paths of ghosts. He is ten, his frail hands
clutching small darknesses.
He doesn't understand fear.
The fireflies have drawn him out, the evening
a terrible beauty of jewels and gems. The house retreats,
farther and farther back, broken and tamed.
How he wants to touch the lights, to own them.
But he knows wildness cannot be held.
He just extends his hands, curls his fingers into a circle,
and peeks through, catching distant fireflies within.
I find him a short walk from the house,
caught in the tangle of night, arms straining
from the weight of what he cannot hold.
He is stabbing into the darkness, raging.
And if I come closer, I will hear his heart pounding
fiercely, keeping wild rhythms, child breaking
into light. But listen: we must let go of these things.
I keep back and let him be, broken, tamed.
