Some nights the shadows made by half light
Seem so straight like the path they took to carve
Their borders between the darkness and this,
What remains with which to see his way out
Of it stark
Like a division slice separates a numerator
From a denominator
He is but the fraction that remains and so will spill
Out what has not been found to make the whole
The shadows though make these defined places
Where he should feel where he should be even blind
Able to follow his fingers along their surfaces even if chapped
And bleeding they leave a trail for someone to follow
Who dares. A thin red line of bird seeds a little boy
Left for the man he’d become to find his way back into the woods
Where he was left behind. I am alone now, he thinks,
When he hears the wind rustle the branches he thinks he hears his fathers words and listens
With such ferocity even a lion would cower in silence.
These lines shadow makes sharp as a blade he could use to
Slice off the hand that sinned. Slice off the parts
He could excise if he could tolerate anymore pain.
He cannot. He no longer knows which side of the half light he needed to fill
To make it whole. He just moves buckets of shiny bits
From one side to another, hoping.
Then he hears it, the voice, on the darkest day
The shadow can make, slicing through the night.
You are not alone
Keep filling the parts you can
With your buckets of shiny bits.
Soon, together, we will slice shadow
And caramelize it for stew
And devour it like memories we’d wanted all along.