Dear Remnant of my Amen,

         All of these hours are swinging open,
doors you will never walk through.

Dear Progeny of my Exhale,

         So be this exile from the State; return again
on virtue of your breath if it be at all an option, if not—

Dear Son of Suns,

         Excavated moans nestle themselves
in my sternum, sop themselves in my mouth.

         In the sheets, their withering hands
wrap around my neck, squeeze.

I am asking you for some penance. Give!

Dear Boy,

         I dreamed you were a bear. Half man, half claw
in the woods. I swear, the sun broke wild on the hill
when I heard you say my grace-given name.

         To know my name in your mouth—one last time.
I am writing you this letter because I, too, am leaving.

Dear—

         The last time I visited, lightning split the bur oak. A

sign

that nothing lives long. Not you. Not our love. Not this land.

         That we, each of us, are as fragile as the bark—as

destined

to turn to dust—is all one ever needs to know in the end.

         In the end, we are
each of us bodies of wild light

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Faylita Hicks (she/they) is a queer Afro-Latinx writer, spoken word artist, and cultural strategist. Based in Chicago, Hicks is the author of HoodWitch (Acre Books, 2019) and a finalist for the 2020 Lambda Literary Award for Bisexual Poetry, the 2019 Julie Suk Award, and the 2019 Balcones Poetry Prize. They are working on a second poetry collection, A Map of My Want, and a memoir about their carceral experience, A Body of Wild Light. faylitahicks.com