Light and Casseroles

I never liked it when folks said
they were sending light
after something bad had happened
It felt like how your neighbors show up
with casseroles when somebody dies
Nobody really wants to make or eat casseroles
It’s just what you do
when there is nothing anyone can do
With every tragedy comes
entire rooms full of
light and casseroles

I don’t want any more light.
Mostly I want to be left alone with
all the lamps switched off
in the quiet
so I don’t have to look at the cracks
in the ceiling, the
gaps by the door where the wind comes in,
each spot I missed scrubbing,
my hands with their calluses chewed raw

Don’t send any more light. Just leave it be.
Send whiskey. Oranges. Extra towels. A soft bathrobe.
Send nothing. Send a song.
Live with the discomfort of your own silence.
Live with my silence.
Let me mend all the things
at my own pace
when I can.
Tell me I will still be beautiful in the morning
when the sun is up
climbing in through the windows and
disturbing our rest.
Send marijuana. Send your favorite book of poems. Send clean sheets.
Sometimes it is good
to have only as much light
as you can produce by yourself
To not rely on your eyes all the time,
To just feel your way along the walls
with your hands,
To sit in the dark
with your eyes shut,
To be allowed to be sad and
unhealed,
To not be better yet