i’m not good at writing happy poems.
my hands are clumsy and so,
so scared—see, joy is
a vast foreign light,
spreading warmth through
fingertips, skeletons, souls.
and when, dear sky,
was the last time i saw
the dawn?
even to close my eyes
and ride on waves of slumber
is a risk
i fear to take—for what if
when i wake,
the sun and all his lullabies
are gone?
no,
i can’t take
another year in the dark.
and if i do,
if i do sleep,
or rest
or trust
or hope—
please, poem
(although messy,
crumbling,
soft),
keep the sun
with me.