rubble

down out of the mountains,
wading through blood,
the silence is deafening,
the relief empty,
the unarmed hand cold and naked.

this is the temple that was lost,
standing bright in my memory as the floor crumbles under my feet.
I warred against myself,
each foray from the caves a cry of rage against the interloper I had become when I wasn't looking.

this is the temple that was found.
there is no oil here.
is this the holy ground I fought for?
a place that was gone the moment I passed from its doorway?
can I bear what I will see if I kindle the light? the absence? the scars?
can I bear to begin something that I know will end, simply by virtue of having been begun?

there is no oil here,
but maybe I am enough to burn.
the lamp will not be lit except that I strike a match.
the story will not be told except that I speak.
the songs will not be written except that I sing,
and set free from my throat both the wailing and the shouting.

blessed are you o temples, built and lost and found and built again,
each new and unrecognizable except for the sound that hums in my bones when I enter.
blessed are you o wick that burns, first on oil, then on hope,
and then on nothing, which is to say: everything, because each crumbling brick and shattered window and moment in time is a lamp filled to the brim.