Absolute Dawn

By Ken Woodley

Under 

brutal

interrogation, 

the sun 

relentlessly refuses  

an alibi

for shining 

in a blue sky

on everyone and everything,

infuriating the raining power,

which washes its hands

of the whole matter,

allowing a small mob

of thunder and lightning

to pass judgment. 

So they crucify 

the sun,

nailing its light

to a darkness

they believe eternal,

but the stars

bleed small pools of shining

and the moon 

digs in its heels,

shouting for all the world to hear: 

“I am not the light.

There is something out there

so wondrous, pure and bright

that I cannot possibly

refuse to reflect

its message and meaning.

You can shine, too, unless 

you turn yourself off.”

And then literally the very next day—

no apocryphal myth, I assure you—

the sun actually rises,

I mean, straight up,

just as promised,

absolute dawn

despite hammers and nails and thorns

and our own Judas clouds

that sometimes cover

the whole 

thing

up.

By Ken Woodley



Under
brutal
interrogation,
the sun
relentlessly refuses
an alibi
for shining
in a blue sky
on everyone and everything,
infuriating the raining power,
which washes its hands
of the whole matter,
allowing a small mob
of thunder and lightning
to pass judgment.
So they crucify
the sun,
nailing its light
to a darkness
they believe eternal,
but the stars
bleed small pools of shining
and the moon
digs in its heels,
shouting for all the world to hear:
“I am not the light.
There is something out there
so wondrous, pure and bright
that I cannot possibly
refuse to reflect
its message and meaning.
You can shine, too, unless
you turn yourself off.”
And then literally the very next day—
no apocryphal myth, I assure you—
the sun actually rises,
I mean, straight up,
just as promised,
absolute dawn
despite hammers and nails and thorns
and our own Judas clouds
that sometimes cover
the whole
thing
up.