Light Has Fingerprints

Photo by Abhi Nikam

A Poem by Rachel Lynne Shakashita

Light was born among the rancid-smelling 

things tonight, and they had to clean  

the blood off after labor so it could be wrapped, 

warm and clean, in strips of linen.  

Light was visited by hope-starved, lonely shepherds, 

and perhaps they only bowed and worshiped, but

perhaps light was gingerly placed  

in the arms of one who had never held a baby before.  

Light did not burst through palace doors 

nor demand its place on the thrones of kings 

but screamed and fussed and grew  

red in the face and cried for nourishment  

because light was dependent—a human, 

so prone to chill and hunger and thirst,  

bright enough to dispel a whole world’s shadows 

but small enough to need Mother to keep it safe.

Rachel Lynne Sakashita is a full-time language student, part-time writer who lives with her husband in Pennsylvania. Her work can be found in blogs and journals such as The Clayjar Review, The Truly Co., Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, and her Substack, Ewe and Shepherd. Find her on Instagram at @abrightaubade.