by Brynn Dizack
were we not the same
difference? the same nothingness, multiplied by itself?
wasn’t she also too much for this world?
yes, yes, but differently:
because she consisted wholly of light,
and i had become a nothingness that could not
reflect it back to her.
she loved me without a face, without a name, without any caution at all, but
she was not built to understand me.
who aren’t i, now, when for so long,
i have not been myself? i thought maybe that self
had gone. that i’d refracted,
permeated some thin wall, into that nothingness.
darkness is not a name,
but a permutation of beyond. i won’t tell you
where i’ve gone. our love has only pained us with
the insistence of old truths. you always wanted to turn the page,
define every emptiness:
but it is too late.
my skin whispers
shed, shed, shed.
become a new thing,
stop wringing your hands of what is,
what is not.
i am already
in that beyond.
fumbling through vantablack, bruising my joints
each time something solid narrows my path.
there are no maps to or from here,
no signs, only outstretched fingertips.
you cannot exist in this place unless you have
here, we will know each other
here, we move more as water
than as living things.
lose the independent will to retain form,
and shift to fit the confines of your vessel;
and pool in the lowest of spaces,
until you no longer know your own shape.
Posted on 04/20/2017
Copyright © 2022 Brynn Dizack
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Rob Littler on 04/21/17 at 07:42 PM|
I so like the confidence to stop wringing hands. It reminds me of a group hike recently and there was this young girl who was always at least 100 yards away, and each time the group would reach her resting point, she would move on--almost at a merciless pace--not to get away but just to be moving away. I could see it in her eyes. She was already gone.
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 04/24/17 at 10:25 AM|
This ode is quite remarkable. Congratulations on POTD.