[dark]

As in the Night. As in Joan, bright and dark. The dark one. The blackness. The bleak house, the inky hole and the absence of light. Or the calm before the storm, the moment between the end and the beginning. A rocking. A swelling. A trembling. The nerve endings and where the muscle begins to twitch. I'm a witch. Am I a good witch or a bad witch? Either way, I'm dark. Dark and lovely. The night of the gondola, gliding around corners in blackest waters, stretching our necks to see the home of Marco Polo at midnight. The ink is black. The pages white. The dark is not empty. The dark contains me. The dark caresses me. I'm afraid of it. I have always been. I can't sleep without the light on, somewhere. Some light. Stars vortex into deep space. My deep sadness and fear vortex into dark night within.

There is still a part of me that is always on. The inner sun. The part of me I have forgotten for the most part. The light heart. The feather. Big heavy mama rolls around relishing the dark parts. I need a little love, a little memory of how it was. When the sun came up, when the light danced in my son's eyes and I saw it there.