LIGHT a collection of prose poetry vignettes by keaton st. james
Writing Š Keaton St. James, all rights reserved.
To anyone who is struggling or lost— I promise that there’s beauty and hope inside you.
fauna noun
1. in the beginning, there was only sunflowers and unmined salt. then the good lord said, let there be blood. this is the origin of scraped elbows. this is why we have teeth. 2. we will grow into our skin like kings grow into their kingdoms. pain first, war first, then swelling, then settling, then breath. 3. van gogh's hunger for yellow is the same as a lion's hunger for flesh is the same as your hunger for love. we are all born wild, beautiful, and starving.
truth noun
1. we are always waiting for that moment when our bones become collagen/calcium compass needles guiding us towards the place that we yearn to call home.
messiah noun
1. your favorite word is yesha. you’ve got blisters on your feet, dirt on your shins, sunburn on your neck, and the taste of blood in your mouth, always. everyone you touch burns like a blue star. trout would become matzah if you asked. reeds would become swords if you asked. 2. hope is synonymous with armor on your tongue, and all the hymns are truly warsongs. what does forgiveness mean? it means your hair dripping with spikenard ointment. it means your cheekbones algow in firelight. it means kiss me, we are all holy and there is no reason to be afraid of what comes next. 3. you always loved brambles, even when they tore the skin of your hands to pieces.
hush noun
1. plastic pastel-colored daisy clips in your hair, the navy mary-janes and their pinching toes, your white socks with lace trim, your soft gingham dress. the room smells a little like smoke and shines a little like gold and its ceiling stretches so high you swear you can hear unseen angels whispering in its eaves. 2. your body becomes something beyond itself— cicada wings or peach-heavy branches, a summer tale, a robin song, a new kind of light. you look up at the altar like a young constellation. your heart is a memory of what is yet to come.
transition verb
1. you grow from a mustard seed into a bright gold bloom. we can leave the battles unspoken, for you’ve worried them over enough. it’s beautiful, the way you reclaim your heart from its ashes. beautiful, the way that the sunrise reclaims you too.
redemption noun
1. in a dream bright-eyed brown-skinned jesus pulls you off the dirt road and into the pine forest. you sit together on the riverbank, thighs touching, bathing your bare calloused feet in the cool water. you show him your half-healed scars, he shows you his scabbed knuckles. you kiss the ghosts of each other's wounds, and then you kiss each other. the sparrows sing dark blue lullabies. jesus tastes like hyssop, hominy, and basil. both of you feel a little freer. 2. in waking life you are a boy with soft shoulders and a softer heart. you’ve never kissed jesus, but there’s a part of you that wants to someday, even with your wicked knees and red-stained mouth. you trace your fingers over the bible-words like they could paint a braille portrait of the curves of his lips. late at night, in the dark, you whisper to him, i hope you aren’t ashamed to love me, and somewhere unseen he whispers back, darling, i have loved you shamelessly since before you were stardust.
communion noun
1. generations of matzot and marror, rosemary and green almonds. generations of incense, oak pews, silver plates. generations of remembrance. generations of togetherness. 2. the holiest truth of them all is hunger. our bellies ache for the sharp, sun-shaped taste of the divine. our souls ache to get drunk on chilled, blessed blood.
passion noun
1. martyrs surrendering their damp skins, a mouth outlined in cherryred darkness, echoing lute strings, those last few breaths on stage before curtains slide shut and the audience lets go. 2. the poems we write when we think no one is watching us but god. the name our mothers give us when they feel we are too much. 3. we dance barefoot through the dust like angels. we laugh, wild and tender, as though we were never made of anything less than blackberry wine, white lace, and love.
belief noun
1. what does it mean to love something you can't touch? your glass palms lifted to the furnace-fire sky, a sweet, deep aching in your wrists and knees. every atom in you is a small note of music and you are a song, a song, a symphony in progress. 2. god made rye seeds and hydrogen peroxide, then god invented telephone cords and dancing shoes. god gave us petri dishes, romantic sonnets, lye soap. god let us have laughter, and behold, is it not beautiful?
Keaton St. James is a tiny poet with a tender heart. He likes saying early morning prayers and listening for angel songs in the whispers of creeks. He thinks you have a lovely smile.