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sickness, as:

by Brynn Dizack

sickness, as:

cold, clear, and
dizzyingly profound, obscuring the landscape.
(what more can be said about a force whose only power lies in its accumulation? i wrote, once.)
the scalar of white, immense and total,
collecting in low places, redefining
the familiar contours of our yard,
a certain thickness prevents me from
saying what i might have said.

i walk in the field, dragging rough canals
through the pristine, because i am angry
at the audacity of it.
my eyes water from the cold, or probably
they just water. i start to understand the consciousness
of snow. each time i make a new path,
it blows over behind me.

the wind follows me home,
laughing, screaming,
pressing up against the windows,
all fists, eyes wild. i take off my boots.

you are captive in your own body.
the border between us is thin, but patrolled.
fences have two sides, says the judgement.
i try not to think about the vast wholeness of it,
and just feel the soft parts,
the familiar contours of your wrist,
fingertips. the labyrinth is restless.
has its own heartbeat.
lays in our bed with us at night, heavy and hot,

obscured landscape:
i don’t recognize you. sometimes
your body is made of pain, and only remembers pain,
and not how to find its way back.
the scalar of pain, immense and total,
collecting in low places, redefining
the topography.
the white is blinding.
the blindness of it,
the dumb, crushing blindness of it.


Author's Note: SRH

Posted on 02/22/2020
Copyright © 2020 Brynn Dizack

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Laura Doom on 02/22/20 at 07:43 PM

pure, as...

Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 02/23/20 at 01:15 PM

I like this. Refreshingly different. It's set up, vocabulary, construction, message.

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