Consider the sun.
Let one photon struggling through plasma
for millions of years toward the surface
be the journey of the soul.
She enters the convection zone in the morning, rising
and falling on currents of heat, takes a room
facing south, on the highest floor.
She’s on the balcony contemplating
the journey, eyes locked on radiance,
a procession of clouds domed like mosques.
Is it forbidden before you leap
to tell the secrets of your prison-house?
What would the truth have been?
I too have harmed myself in the furnace,
the viscera where atoms split apart.
From the surface
it’s a quick passage, only seven minutes
to stream 93 million miles.
This time, let her body open
enough to receive that one particle of joy.