The ghosts of my failures pull my body harder
than anything else—cold hands, wild shrieks,
dark fog raging in the air. In spite of this
I am still drifting on this sea of beauty;
basking in the warmness of the sun—
my body, a beehive overflowing with honey.
It is true that when the universe throws up
its blues, like a giant, drunken god,
the mortal face turns dark in the spray.
It is also true that when a joybird begins to sing,
every face is turned towards her light.
On the morning of my feast, I am sitting
beneath a diseased apple tree, mourning a loss
that never grew into shape. In the afternoon,
I am flying into the orchard with a chariot
full of bells to drown out sorrowful songs.
Look at how I bloom even in the devious dark.
My body, an orb, a moon. Glory to the sun
that fills me with light. All I do now is beam.