I think sometimes I rest in the
upturned palm of possibility;
I can so easily be dropped onto
the concrete below but somehow
keep myself upright, clinging to
the calloused fingers of hope,
faced towards the sky.
And in all this openness is
a cave that won’t let me out
of its god-awful black womb
but will sometimes give me fire
with which to throw shadows
against the wall and terrify me
with the size of my own darkness.
My freedom is my imprisonment –
I am a daughter of failed possibility
and possible failure, but, as always,
there is the ever-present promise
of being led out, and away.