He swore he saw a fire in me* as he parked the car
along the side of the road, firmly grasped my
shoulder, and prayed to God that I would be able
to see in color again, while I was waging war
inside my head.  And I’d like to think that it’s true,
that if you look close enough, you can see the glow
of a roaring fire in the corners of my eyes,
that these eyes are two jewels of incense, a fragrant
offering of sweet, spiraling smoke.  And I like to think
that these eyes are two beacons, shining out into
the weighty darkness and calling weary travelers
home, storm-tossed ships, sailing
under a starless sky.

But there was a time when all I saw through these
eyes were the darkest shades of gray, day after day,
and though I can see my home at the very end
of the horizon, it is still countless miles away.
And it’s always winter, and I’m just resting here
for the night, I’m off again in the morning.
I’m chilled to the bone, but I’ve got to sleep
anyway, and I just want to make it home.
I’m looking ahead to the light in someone’s eyes,
because my flesh is so cold it feels like death,
and I need a fire to warm myself beside.
I’m looking ahead to that light, because I have
wandered alone for so long in this darkness,
and I need a place where I can finally put my anchor
down. I’m looking for home, and most days,
it’s the only thing that keeps me going.
*I’m recklessly
headed for
home.