In the Wild Light

by Jeff Zentner

There are days when your heart is so filled with this world’s beauty, it feels like holding too much of something in your hand. Days that taste like wild honey. This is one of them.

When you grow up with ugliness and corruption, you surrender to beauty whenever and wherever you find it. You let it save you, if only for the time it takes for a snowflake to melt on your tongue or for the sun to sink below the horizon in a wildfire of clouds. No matter what else might be troubling your mind. You recognize it for something that can’t be taken from you. Something that can’t die with its back against a door, shutting you out in its final act.

“Every hurt, every sorrow, every scar has brought you here. Poetry lets us turn pain into fire by which to warm ourselves. Go build a fire.”

Listening to her read feels like standing in a river—any moment you could be swept away. A few times I hold my breath until I am almost gasping, for fear of missing even a single word. At one point Dr. Adkins looks over at me and just says, “Yeah?” “Yeah,” I whisper. We think of language as this tame thing that lives in neat garden beds, bound by rules and fences. Then someone shows it to you growing wild and beautiful, flowering vines consuming cities, erasing pavement and lines. Breaking through any fence that would try to contain it. Reclaiming. Reshaping. Reforming.

“I’ll tell you the truest thing I know: You are not a creature of grief. You are not a congregation of wounds. You are not the sum of your losses. Your skin is not your scars. Your life is yours, and

The Poem I Promised You You should write a poem about how awesome I am, you said once. I promised I would. So here it is. The poem about how awesome you are. How every mile between us feels like a parched desert. How my lips remember you like water holds the sun’s heat. How my heartbeat measures out the seconds until we’re together again. How I lie in my bed, seeking the memory of you on the mattress. How I love you. How I love you. How I love you. Speak mysteries to me. Tell me the names of winds. How birds navigate. Why storms move from west to east. Tell me that the death of stars is not the death of light. Tell me the wonders of this world and others. When it’s my turn, I’ll say your name back to you.