the absence of light
we maintain our eyes cannot see.
We believe our pupils dilate
to a maximum degree and no more.
We are certain our bodies do not glow
with the cold phosphorescence of the bog,
of water, unfathomed, under pressure,
our own or beyond our making. We assure
ourselves we are exonerated because
we cannot float through the night
graceful with inherent sonar. We think
anatomy keeps us from the forest.
I tell you here, in this
indistinct country, comes our shaped
and fleshed evolution. That step
on the unlit path stretches us,
and those who may come after.
With each hesitant journey
we open, blazing beacon fires,
flashing lanterns from high, distant
hills. Dark surrounds us. We are
paradox. We carry our own light
and move in love through the dark,
as the seed loves the earth enclosing
“The Seed Is the Light of the
Earth,” Looking For Home: Women
Writing About Exile, Milkweed Editions,