The Light Before

grandma died in childbirth
for a moment, but survived

I asked her,
what about the light?

(we living like to know
some things ahead of time)

the light, like they say,
is there actually a light?

you know, like a tunnel,
a voice, some kind of calling?

she said, well there was something,
but I wouldn't call it light:

I could hear this baby crying in
a house as pitch as night

and just knew that only I
knew where to find it

This poem appears in


Pass it Along

© Brendan Bonsack
May 2017