February, 2026

In twenty thousand years, when the dust settles on this earth
and the despair, and
its fires burn out, and it recovers from horrors that today seem endless,
and the planet returns to what it was twenty millennia ago—
green with blue water, and white clouds always—
then we will meet.

We will arrive as we did the first time:
without shields, without weapons,
eyes open to the soul,
whose question is a key,
whose answer is a haven,
whose language travels—like waves of light on ether—the distance between us,
       beyond speech.

We’re going to need that time. Perhaps more.
For the volcanoes to cool,
and lamps to light the first, second, and third skies,
for the trees to reform into forests extending in all directions,
for light rays to return to their source—gold’s and silver’s light—and you and I:
You will see me and fall into my arms.
I will see you and fall into your arms.

West Bank, 2023

God said Let there be light
and we stood before the sun
shed the daylight from our selves
and donned dusk

God said Let there be light
and a moth emerged
from my molasses-black chrysalis

God said Let there be light
and we became
our blackest selves

God said Let there be light
and we became our own gods

God said Let there be light
and from the shade we watched
the sky shine her brightest

Let there be light
and day became
seemingly so

Let there be light
and night was never so black

Let there be light
and flesh became skin

and skin became colored

and the light was let in the house

and the cotton rose in the fields

and the master’s tools took shape

and an ocean kept us apart

and the indigo washed the coastline

and blue-black hands worked their fingers to the bone

and the rivers teemed with teeth

and barks ran through the woods

and the days grew darker

and the heavens rose beyond our reach

and God’s absence became apparent

and smoke poured over the mountain’s edge

and the fields filled with fire

and there was light

“This poem is the result of my interrogation of God’s role in the inhumanities of the world He supposedly created, specifically the dehumanization of Black people [which] laid the foundation for the transatlantic slave trade.” Dāshaun Washington

The moon is full tonight ….

It’s as full as it was
in that poem by Coleridge
where he carries his year-old son
into the orchard behind the cottage
and turns the baby’s face to the sky
to see for the first time
the earth’s bright companion,
something amazing to make his crying seem small.

And if you wanted to follow this example,
tonight would be the night
to carry some tiny creature outside
and introduce him to the moon.

And if your house has no child,
you can always gather into your arms
the sleeping infant of yourself,
as I have done tonight,
and carry him outdoors,
all limp in his tattered blanket,
making sure to steady his lolling head
with the palm of your hand.

And while the wind ruffles the pear trees
in the corner of the orchard
and dark roses wave against a stone wall,
you can turn him on your shoulder
and walk in circles on the lawn
drunk with the light.
You can lift him up into the sky,
your eyes nearly as wide as his,
as the moon climbs high into the night.