This Little Light of Mine
by feldman
Long ago, the itch sunk through his skin, into his bone and brain. It ground through flesh like the mines grind through Baniks.
Each night when his people sleep, he bites his fingernails sharp and exposes a fresh layer of himself to the night sky. He wants the wound to kill him. His remaining eye still sees too much pain.
Tonight there is no itch, no ragged flesh to soothe by paring away.
Cool light pours from the shelters. From the doorway, the weary and the dying look like windows flooding in light from the other side.
They are beautiful.