Second Letter to Darkness
Carol Berg
Dear Darkness: I wanted to leave quickly,
it’s true. Wanted to leave before the red
bird in my stomach made the plummet.
Wanted to leave before the wings in your
hands flew out to my cheek, my neck.
I saw the small flutterings begin the way
rings in the lake begin from the water beetle’s
circling. Or the way wind slowly licks
the dangling maple leaf. Yes, the one
shaped like your hand. I know you’ve
heard this before. Your hands at your side.
Your hands speak in the language of wings,
dear Darkness. And I am still unable to fly.