On Writing, Isaac Luria’s Vessels of Light Cracked
at the Creation of the World, and William Blake’s
Light Shining Through the Cracks
Across the empty page laid out
before me, six ragged ovals of light appear,
each one shining, like a silver chain
linking the sun to this smooth cherry desk
to the white, white page.
They bear a message.
They are traveling somewhere,
from above to below.
Where? Where are they pointing?
No. No meaning here.
Just a trick of light—
nothing but sunlight forced through
chinks in a closed blind.
But a true trick, the kind
a dervish might play to
wake you up.
But how to hear the trick?
Light shines out the six openings, as if
burning through the paper, the paper
no longer able to keep it hidden,
the fire that creates the world—
anew, anew.
Six stepping stones across
a river of forgetting.
Jump to the first. Listen. Look.
Let the light remember you to life.
Jump to the next and see again for the first time
all you had forgotten since your last
leap toward living.
Jump again.
When you slip, haul yourself up from the turgid waters,
stand full height, expand your heart, and stretch your wings
to dry like the anhinga, that prehistoric bird.
Then leap to the next.
There are only six, not enough
to make it to the other side.
You may be stranded in the rushing waters
of forgetting and forgetting.
You may die in your sleep.
You must begin the crossing.
