The Night We Carry

& the night follows me
into day, building a palace
on the floor of my insides.

I don’t know if l forgot
the kitchen knife in there
too. Something turns,
twists, slices but the weight
stays whole. Nothing
crumbles, nothing turns
to rubble when l need it to.

Instead, my arms form a firm
cross around my stomach,
my body, some kind of Jesus
surrendering to the turmoil.

Is this what they mean
by crucifixion?

When muscles & veins crochet
themselves, short & thick—
like a rope gearing for service
at the gallows.

My insides crave a noose, hard
but this knotted body refuses
to snap. Like before, l bow to
the darkness sitting queenly within.


Photo by Kamaji Ogino from Pexels