Rising

I still want to write her.
(not to her, mind you, but to make a picture
of who she was to me . . .
except that I’m not sure I know)
even after all this time
as if I could cage her effect
in my careful cursive
keep it forever in the page
since I let the soul-searing reality of it
go with the rest

But, then, it might not be her
after all
it might be all the darkness
that went with her
the darkness that used to burn my fingertips
the darkness I ate
to stay alive
when light seemed to be letting me down.

I let myself down
and it was such a relief.

Did any of us believe for a minute
that I did it because of her?

The sun has risen
over those darker days
and I find the light to my liking
these fingertips still burn
with the heat of a happy sun
giving life to the words they form
well-fed even without
the fear and anger that was once
their only sustenance.