Glittering with mystery,
this unopened box of free time
has demanded my attention
long enough.
We’re past the one-year notch,
the royal barge glides beyond it,
while the box renews its challenge.
I used to know what I was doing
and why. Now?
May I enter a fifth amendment plea
before the court—
please?
I used to know my value, but somehow,
has it ended up in that unopened box?
Not sure what it even was any more.
Am I any longer able to speak one word
that is not marketing or wifehood or motherhood
or neighborhood or poetry,
the assignments to which I gave my life?
Last year, I thought was for surgery and medication—
a chance to recalibrate, move slower,
think deeper. I guessed I’d move on
eventually.
Urgency about endings has faded,
however, as the barge has slid up over
the waterlilies on the shore’s edge.
Time here is as ubiquitous as the Nile sand,
sparkling with both gold and mica.
And I, unable to tell the difference,
withdraw my hand from the box.
I know my end is inside there,
wrapped carefully in dried lavender,
for sweet dreams, they said.
2023 has been a sabbatical
where I’ve learned so much more
than I ever could before,
even given so many thousands of lives.
As a slave, I’ve been a laundress,
a soldier, even a queen, so now,
gathering all those ancient shreds of costume
together,
I reach out my hand,
lift the box’s lid—surprisingly light
for how heavy it’s been,
and out falls a torch,
which says all the words necessary.
I am a servant of the light
on my way home.
Here on the last segment
of my journey, my only task is
to shine my light,
so others may travel with me
without stumbling,
even when my own eyes
doubt the path.
All of us are gathered
here on the river’s shore
for the final stretch together,
preparing for a consummation
history has never seen nor imagined,
when our night will pass on
into eternal sunrise.