I died a thousand tiny deaths,
buried in doubt, shoveled under shame,
but now I rise,
my only burden, the pressure of becoming,
and the poundage of resurrection.
Digging through the scraps,
the discarded refuse, the forgotten waste,
finding bits of tin
that could be reshaped into stars.
I held the heat of them close,
let it melt the lead of my bones,
gathered up the pieces of me
they'd said were better kept in canopic jars,
forged them together until the plumbum
began to shine with gilt.
Now I no longer tire of pushing
the light across the sky.
Even the smallest, quietest soul
can carry the sun.