The Terrible Reckoning
The fact of the matter is. The fact of the matter is that
we are all bags of misery, gelled and frozen and reconstituted.
Something delicious is only a memory when your mouth
has gone powdery overnight. The fact of the matter is that
we are all bags of skin containing things to be corrupted.
This is what I wrote. That corruption is a natural progression,
that skin recedes and puckers, leaving blood vessels
that clog and muscles atrophying. This is what I wrote,
that misery is destiny and pain necessary to an understanding
that the concept of transgression is something alien to most.
Transgression sucks us to the husks and leaves when people
break things we adore them and collect them, specimens
as opposed to rapidly morphing, often cranky bodies
which happens when their lives are carved from pain
series of moments seeing if that pain will ever cease.
They are so lovely in repose because they have been thinking about
how rest will feel forever.
We lived inside a stinking tint, halfway between black and brown
and nothing left. Shelter was the foolish hint of windows open,
facing east. Each morning, we were blind to one another.
We ate like it was madness, never enough. A root
would rise up from our throats and fork in our clogged mouths.
Speech was permissible, as long
as understanding never clouded it.
Rhythms played in school were false. But she
commands them as we're taking turns
compressing in her wedding gown.
I'm going to put it on tonight, drive
my broken car against the hills. You ought
to see the way it looks on us, various pasts
enmeshed across the ugly scale of satin,
our eyes a cloud of hungry bees, humming just beneath the veil.
Finally, there is a light
and what it makes of us; so embarrassing we shirk
responsibility, in favor of retreat. What thoughts we had
on passing one another, some afternoon
when randomness meant more than mere association
will remain suppressed. After meeting you it was as if
the notions I had clung to for so long
they might have been foundations were little
more than art and less than time, and you wore on me
enough that I was just raw amber, which will melt
against skin if you press its grains there long enough.