Wake Up Brave

I want to wake up brave,

Persephone taking stock of a new world,

the ballerina rising with willow muscle out of death,

steel-eyed and whole.

I still don't know if that's possible in this place,

any place-

but every day,

I do wake up,

armorless and alert.

I want to wake up brave,

even on the days I wake up crying.

Look- I am still here,

song of myself,

me coming home to myself on a Tuesday evening

in October,

ordinary and shining with the light of survival.

This is the future I see,

in a place where before

there was no future.

When you want a love song,

some chilly night this rearing winter,

look elsewhere.

This is not for you, and I am not sorry.

This is my no. This is my if. This is my love for my own skin,

my own good skin that houses me,

my own good life that brings me home,

finally,

ever,

when,

like a spell from a great witch.

Let me wake up brave.

I will open my eyes in color and be able

to pray again.

I will love the deep dark glittering mines of me,

the coyote parts, or die trying.

I am like the wild road home:

it knows death, but still sings;

it sings its prayers and its love songs

to that great witch in her own land,

who has at last

arrived at herself.