I spent the whole day
crying and writing, until
they became the same,
as when the planet covers the sun
with all its might and still
I can see it; or when one dead
body gives its heart
to a name on a list. A match.
A light. Sailing a signal
flare behind me for another to find.
A scratch on the page
is a supernatural act, one twisting
fire out of water, blood out of stone.
We can read us. We are not alone.
— Brenda Shaughnessy
The Nation 290:24, June 21, 2010
Thanks to T., who brought this poem to my attention.