On the thirteenth day of gray and winter rain
I remember the story of Amaterasu,
the Japanese goddess of the sun, who,
attacked by her brother, hid in a cave,
and the world was cast in darkness.
There have been more attacks
in the last few weeks than the world
can bear to hear. Sometimes we forget
how to cry. Sometimes in anger we forget
how to sing, how to pray. Sometimes,
like the younger brother, Susanoo,
we hurl things at those we love most—
perhaps not a monstrous flayed horse,
but blame, judgment, accusations, disgust.
It’s no wonder whatever is light
finds a way to retreat. It’s no wonder
we find ourselves in darkness.
In the story, the rest of the gods
try to lure out the sun with roosters
all ordered to crow outside the cave.
I, too, have tried to tell myself, others too,
that it is morning when it is not.
Always, I am left with darkness
on my tongue.
Then the gods placed a tree
draped in glittering jewels
just outside the closed cave door
and at its center they hung a mirror
so the sun could see her own loveliness.
I, too, have tried to put shine
on the tawdry world,
and never did any sparkling thing
make what is ugly more beautiful.
It was Amenouzume, another goddess,
who danced with abandon,
who took off her clothes
and twirled and teased
until all the gods in heavens roared with delight,
and, out of curiosity, the sun finally
opened the door to see.
Oh world, I am the one who knocks
on the door until my hands bleed,
the one who speaks to the door
and begs and threatens and cajoles
until she is hoarse. None of it
has brought back the light. I am ready
to try dancing and dropping all my layers.
I am ready to try flinging my head back
and letting loose a reckless, untamable laugh.