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Capitalize the S in Surrender. My bent fingers to the light switch tonight. The moths to my porchlight. The listless to gravity. Sheets to wet skin. Wolves to hunger, full moons, the howling. Hunting in packs, barks and yips ringing across snow banks, down dry river beds. Feet to frostbite. Lemmings to cliff sides. Motorcycles to oil streaked pavement. Incrementally giving in, sewing the white flag one stitch at a time. Building a pole to fly it on. Hoping you’ll think of a reason not to go through with it. Surrender like wings to windstorms, fuselage to forest floor. Marbles to the space under the refrigerator. Clean shirts to ketchup. Knees to floorboards, whispers to prayer. The dying to prayer. Prisoners to prayer. The time always comes when the letting go is easier, kinder, nobler than the hanging on. Standing up is a foreign feat and fainting is a child’s game. Is it weakness? Slander? A calculated decision? Sometimes my skin has been its own flurry of a fight-free soul, a symbol of what I would not do, say, dream. Or the news was bad enough, I came back to see what I could offer. Forgetting my vow to enter your absence again. So I write the word, let it go… again.
