RANCID

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There is a decrepit little thing
living somewhere behind my ribs.
Ugly thing.
Ugly as something
that survived being buried.
Bent-backed.
Bad-kneed.
One eye clouded over.
One leg dragging.
Its fur gone strange
around the places
the fire found it.
It has eaten dirt.
It has slept
with its mouth open
in the wreckage.
It has mistaken
survival for shelter
so many times
it no longer knows
the difference.
And still,
somewhere in the dark
of me,
it breathes.
People misunderstand hope.
They give it wings.
Dress it in gold.
Put light behind it.
Give it clean hands
and a ringing voice.
They make it something
that enters the room
with sunlight
caught in its hair.
Something young.
Something gleaming
at the beginning
of a road.
As though hope
has never had
its teeth kicked in.
As though it has never
had to crawl.
As though it has never
bitten through
its own leash.
My hope is not like that.
Mine is feral.
Mine has bad teeth.
Mine flinches
when touched.
Mine knows every exit.
Mine sleeps lightly.
Mine has learned
not to sing
where singing
might give away
its hiding place.
It knows the underside
of doors.
It knows how long
a night can become
when nothing in it
is promised.
It knows what it is
to be broken
and then required
to continue
without first
becoming whole.
There are scars
I cannot account for anymore.
Old seams.
Bad repairs.
Places where somebody
tried to mend it
with whatever was nearby.
Thread.
Tape.
Rage.
A hand held out
at exactly
the right moment.
There are parts of it
that healed crooked.
I love them most.
Because there is nothing radiant
about the way it survived.
Some things happened
and remained terrible.
Some doors closed
and were only
doors closing.
Some losses
did not become wisdom.
Some wounds
did not become windows.
Not everything broken
was secretly becoming beautiful.
Sometimes
it was simply broken.
And still,
the ugly little thing
kept making room
inside itself
for another breath.
Then another.
Then another.
Not because morning
was promised.
Not because rescue
was coming.
Not because somewhere
beneath all that ruin
I believed
everything would be all right.
Sometimes hope
is much smaller
than belief.
Sometimes hope
does not rise.
Sometimes it lies there.
Sometimes it pants
against the floor.
Sometimes it has
its back against the wall.
Sometimes it hates
what it has been asked
to survive.
Sometimes all it can do
is refuse
to become a corpse.
Perhaps the sacred thing
is this small,
hideous animal
inside the body,
scarred beyond light,
looking at another
impossible morning
with no brightness in it,
no prophecy,
no reason anyone else
would recognize,
and breathing anyway.
I think that is what
they get wrong.
Hope does not always
look forward.
Sometimes
all it can manage
is
no.
Not this.
Not yet.
The body refusing
to finish the sentence
death began.
And maybe that is why
I trust this ruined thing
more than anything
shining.
It has no innocence
left to confuse
with faith.
It knows exactly
what the world can do.
It knows.
And still,
somewhere beneath
all that ruin,
there remains
this indecent,
unreasonable instinct
toward tomorrow.
Ugly thing.
Poor thing.
Stubborn thing.
I put my hand
over my ribs sometimes
just to feel
whether it is still there.
It is.
God,
it is.
Broken almost
past recognition.
Its mouth
pressed to the dark.
Breathing.
Still breathing.