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.