My fingers tangle and trip over sloppy knitting like a deer learning to walk on crooked pencil legs. Like a song I don't quite know the words to. I move unsteadily, uncertain, with short shaky breaths. Remember when I taught my lungs to breathe again in August? After so many mistakes that I didn't know how to reconcile. I wanted to die out back of a hotel in Montana, dramatic in the weeds and grasshoppers. Needles fighting, I spread a mess of mustard yarn across my fingers like I need a napkin. Has anything changed? Dropped stitches, weary knots leaving gaping holes. I think of how I ran away from it all. There are days I still look back. But I look straight into the sky as if demanding an explanation from God himself. I have to shade my eyes sometimes, seeing blinding brilliance in the sun now. I can't live any longer only by the light it sheds everywhere else. No, in births of light and bursts of truth and slow, overdue breaths is a song I'm finally learning the words to. You will not defeat me. I rip out my knots and begin again.