When you have no words for the wounds.
When your body is as hollowed out and dark
as a jack-o-lantern
When you have lost your north, your south,
your east and your west
Words for the pain are forming
beneath the skin of your patience.
Your body is gathering light for winter.
Your compass is emerging through water.
Sometimes dying is the only way to live again.
It may take all your stories away.
It may hunt and kill your pride
so you are left with nothing
but questions and space
howling into the night
What next? What now? What for?
This is when grace
pours her warm milk
into your wounds
and advises you to rest.
To steal the secrets of sorrow
and learn her heavy song
so that you can become an instrument
of resilience, turning ever forward
with more than you were born with.
For isn't holding hands with sorrow
Dying while you are still alive
birthing your next self