Contretemps

Sculpture by Olga Ziemska

It always begins with

a moment of doubt.

A don’t know.

An unsure.

That is the exacting part.

The part where

the mortar cracks and

the armor falls and

we quest for hidden stones

on the muddy bed.

The part where,

There must be something to this.

I will have the last word,

slips in.

The mind greeds for its victories,

so the words congregate,

and the stories spill.

But stories are

the swaddling clothes

of the wounded ego,

the flawed foils

of a thieved reality.

Promises. Promises.

Come. We deliver.

But one intimation at proximity,

and they smugly demand

we keep our distance.

Only the body discerns

without vacillation.

Only blood is

voiceless and

true.

Everything begins

and ends

here:

Inside this body this life,

this labyrinth this journey.

Inside this vastness this space.

Inside this wall-less temple.

Inside this wordless language.

Inside this chariot without wheels.

Vanitas

Shadow of a Woman, Megan Headley

Something demands me

From behind that glass.

Longing. Ambition.

Recognition.

perfection

And I just want to stand

Beside myself

For a spell,

To observe myself

From this conventional distance,

To ponder why

I stand like I stand,

To ponder why

I wear what I wear,

To ponder why

I look like I look,

to ponder why

i fear what i fear

But then . . .

how blind, my winged ego!

To learn of these things

I might want

to thieve myself

from this place

To re-enter myself,

To see what I see,

To hear what I hear,

To feel what I feel,

to brutalize

this unutterable numbness

And then to smile,

And maybe to cry,

And maybe . . .

to weave tightropes

between clouds

To ponder why

And how

I am who I am,

i am who i am

To ask every question,

Without pause, without mercy,

And never to find

unbuttoned and

unpainted as i am

The Answer.

Distillation, The Third

Self-portrait, Nevine Sultan

Click to read the first and second “Distillation” poems.

* * * * * * * * *

What was it that made you weep,

My Ghost?

My absences were long.

Your eyes were stone.

We were grasping

for elusive lines.

You said,

I am the arrow that struck you

in the heart.

I am the lovemarks that painted

your wrists.

I said,

I am the agitated membrane that,

when split, liberated your defenses,

disarming the chaos inside you.

But I am also your blank page,

My Ghost.

Your truths are inked,

your secrets grafted,

inside my bones.

I see my history

in your eyes.

Why do we spar so?

I said,

I told you truths.

You said,

For honesty’s sake,

I told you lies.

You, My Ghost?

You said,

You made me smile

like no other could.

I said,

You made me cry.

You said,

Forgive me.

And I spread my ribs and

bared the gaping lips of

this wounded vessel.

And leaning into you, I said,

I do not negotiate forgiveness,

My Ghost.

Now, how’s that for honesty?

Found

Unknown Artist

On the eve of autumn equinox,

Something in my core…

The dwindle of summer, woven

Into pigments of yellow,

Red, and gold.

The crisp nip of air, coiled

Between feeble blades of grass.

The hollow vault of nightfall.

(do you remember?)

I am depleted… and I rest,

Surrendering my body to a thin slumber

Inked with spectral dreams.

I awaken drenched, confused,

Summoned,

Seeking your eyes…

My lit candles in every darkness.

My tongue hunts the

Throbbing skeleton of dawn

Through a slit of curtain, and

Lingers on the windowsill,

Awaiting the rise of

Morning, craving the wild.

The world

cracks

Open.

My lips part.

(i do)

Fall spills

With shuddering decadence.

(thank you)

I did not find this sweet libation.

It found me.