O Happy Dagger for J. Mark
So dark, the air too was taken with the light until you ended up breathless, from the striving to build words out of letters that did not exist— to create a language as a gift, to say this was how you felt. You gave away all your belongings, said, They’re only things that were never enough to make you feel, praying to a God you never believed in, you’d try anything to alter the terms —to keep the skies from coming down on you with their unceasing storms. You offered to me your bracelet, and the cool Shakespearian dagger, both of which I have to this day, and every now and then, I’ll slip the bracelet on, though it no longer boasts the warmth of your skin, and more than once, I’ve held that dagger to my heart though my nights are not so dark, and I can still catch my breath, though barely, remembering you as you held it out to me, with your own hand. Stephen Jackson
