“I am rebegot/ Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.” — John Donne, “A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy’s Day”
Again and again, from nothingness I’m born.
Each death I witness makes me more my own.
I imagine each excess line of mine erased,
each muscle shredded, each bone sheared.
Eventually, my spine’s long spar will snap,
ribs tumbling loose; my face will droop and drop.
Then I will be reborn—the air will shimmer
and my molecules, emerging free, will vault.
Behind each door I pass, a light will surge.