et facta est lux
In the language you struggle with,
light is something you open like a door,
and kill like a bird, neck wrung
into cursive in your warm hand.
The inside of an egg is white and red.
There is only one word for for, on, in, into, at.
Everything has an interchangeable sex,
or perhaps none at all. On long
night drives home you argue
in the passenger seat with your father
on acceptable translations of Holy
Spirit. He says “diwang
banál” is insufficient, that such sacred
force is impersonal, not a god made
to breathe into, on, at, or for the composite
of your body. But energy, you think,
sainted; and the highway
streetlamps bloom in a quick
blink and the road becomes a road.
In the language you struggle.
Light is something
you open like a door.
Image: Jean Bernard, Public Domain.