one day,
in the midst of your normal ordinary everything
you will come across a poem
and something about it
will speak truth
to your bones

—you’ll know this poem by the
chill that rises along your arms
travels
down your spine
the one that pulses truth
the one that whispers
from deep in your solar plexus
that this exact poem may
one day
be the one thing that stands between you
and the siren song of the shadowlands—

you don’t need to understand why or how
you just need to listen.

when you find a poem like that
do not continue with whatever you were going to do
before the poem found you
I beg of you, take note
stop and write it by hand
on the prettiest paper you can find
in your most careful cursive,
just like they taught you in grade school.

you’ll need to keep this poem in your back pocket
you see
so fold it carefully
edges lined up with precision
make the crease lines just so
this is important work.

take the poem out
every so often
—even when everything
is perfect
and tomorrow looks like infinity
and you swear you will never
sleep alone again—

just in case
memorize the words
—and the words between the words
because those are sometimes the most important of all—
as a safeguard against the day you throw your clothes in the washing machine
without first rescuing your poem
or you lend your favorite jeans
to that friend who is forever
but her luggage gets lost on the flight back from visiting her parents
in Idaho of all places
and your poem is never seen or heard from again.

because quite likely, dear one, the time will come that you will need that poem
on blue black nights at 3am
on the days when the sun has baked your bones dry and
still the rains won’t come
when when the ground is too hard for rest
but not steady enough
to rise from
when food turns sandpaper in your mouth
and you call and call and they do not come home.

when those days arrive
you won’t remember the poem right away
so deep will you be in the sweet mess of grief
but eventually you will reach back to your back pockets
looking for a tissue or your atm card,
and you will feel the outline
of that well-worn piece of paper.

when you do
when your body finally recalls how you planned for this
take the poem out of your back pocket
unfold it carefully
smooth the creases and lay it flat.

take a minute to brush your matted hair
splash your tear ravaged face with warm water
and pat it dry with all the gentleness your soul craves
now straighten your spine
whatever it takes to
remember your beauty and worth

then take a breath
because even though it seems impossible
that a poem could have so much power
it is quite entirely possibly that
this poem will
remind you why you still want to breathe

it is possible that
when heart and ego are wrecked and ruined
it will sustain you
when the air is so heavy
you stay in bed until noon because
fighting gravity is just too much
and you’ve gone mute just to avoid the effort of speaking your hurt
just maybe this poem will be talisman and guide
on the journey back home to yourself.

so why not give it a chance
even if it feels unlikely
what is there to lose, anyway?
you have already lost it all, after all
you were holding so tightly and you lost, anyway

so go ahead now
read that poem aloud
through your tears.

give it the cadence
that is the exact opposite
of the love song you don’t think
you’ll ever be able to hear again without crying

roll that poem around in your mouth
suck the letters between your teeth
blow them out like rings of smoke in winter air.
take them into your fists and throw them
into the darkness

speak that poem clear
in a voice
that sounds nothing like the one
you used when you whispered her name
like it was the definition of hope

you are the definition of hope, love
and this is where you get your voice back

after all
there is a reason your body quivered
when you read this poem for the first time
there is a reason you listened to me
and took the time to write it out
—as implausible as it might have seemed—
and you saved it for today
carried it in your back pocket all these years
because you somehow knew,
you have always been wise like that.

so dammit—read the poem.
put your whole being into that poem
all the beauty and all the ugly
breath and body and blood and guts and tears.

read it again
and again
let the refrain rise
until the truth of it is a light composed of syllables
until the light is a bulletproof vest made of words
until the bulletproof vest is enough to protect you from your own fury

now read it again
until your fury becomes the vast heat of power
until the power lodges in your belly,
red hot and burning true.

and then—and only then
get yourself out under the stars
and howl that poem at the night sky with every ounce
of fire you have ever known

and when those words are all finally flying free
call them back to you as if you own them
because you do.

swallow them back down into your belly
feel how they are a part of you
warm them with the embers of your own tenacious heat
speak to them in the voice of a lover, or a mother, or a friend

now stop and breathe for a minute.
slow and steady.
until that all the fury and fire and power you threw into that poem transmutes
until the alchemy of it softens everything,
even the hard edge of your grief.

open your eyes
throw your head back to the heavens
see if there isn’t just a little more light
see if you don’t feel different now,
even just a little.

I can almost promise you will.
I know it.

because this is what it is,
my bravely broken one,
to let a poem save you.

how do I know this so well?

only because this is how
lifetime after lifetime
I have saved myself.