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Dagaz
March 16, 2023
Drawing
on my hand
is simple comfort.
In summer,
on a hot bus,
I do it
without thinking,
my left pointer finger
a soft paintbrush
on my right palm.
In winter,
I reflect on it,
the up
and down,
the single
horizontal line.
I remember drawing
a symbol,
not a picture.
A symbol that
silently
reassures me
that I am in a better place,
that I am a warm sunrise.
That I have been
my own teacher–
even when my body burnt–
and taught myself well enough.
“You’ve made it,”
it tells me,
“You’re free.”
I know
I have more ground to cover.
But I’ve never
felt safer.
© Anonymous
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