Certain Kind of Sorrow

I used to know
the ways to escape,

to be come invisible,
stepping out of my own skin
at a moment's notice,

dropping my body
like a slip off my hips
onto the cold floor
in the dark.

The freedom
of those moments
of flight--
allowing the tides
of my breath
to wash away
suffering--

it was so familiar then
I could feel
the pulse

like wings
under the bones
in the solid cage
of my ribs,

holding me in the place
I had allowed myself

to be

alone.

That certain kind of sorrow,
a single note of birdsong
at dawn,

hovers
near my skin
as a reminder
of the ways

the soul learns
to survive--

the way she makes kindness
for the stranger
within

a war to be won
at any cost.