Joy

Sometimes it defies me
and I am left groping about in the basement,
the exhaustion of yesterday’s staircases
sending me downwards
in silence and damp.

But there are eyes
that see the bruises which I stroke
and faces which know bruises worse
than any I have known today
and kept their smile.

And there is joy
which death has proven strong;
it bears my scars like nails
and stands in wait until I take
its hand into the day.

And there are arms
which reach into my basement and
hold what wounds I cannot know
and light a fire, bright and clear
in the anguish of the dark.