Sarah Frost

Rebirth

It goes like this, always, always, and still each time
I am awestruck: an ending of how things were, a change,
a trauma, something shifts and shatters, sorrow pours steady
from a wound, and I’m unsure how it might ever be sealed.
Neither glue nor embroidery thread nor sutures can contain
a thing this sour, soot spilling from my depths, unexpected
and with such force it seems endless, always, always—
until it catches my eye, someday, a faint glimmer
and I recognize now how this strength has polished
my pain, still muddy, so imperfect. But isn’t that how
it always goes? I am caught by surprise at its appearance
each time: there was an insurmountable ache, and then,
against all odds, a glint of joy, bursting through.
Always, always. The only work left now is to
let it catch the light, illuminated. New.