i've been struggling to find words. not just because there's so much to say, so much hangnail experience dragging the coat sleeves. but because i don't feel differently. i don't suppose i rightly am.
images. images rule now. tiny quadrangles, time capsules for a future to weep over. i've become aware of decay. of scars. of what was but isn't. this isn't something i'd thought over much before. i never had reason to care.
so i'm aware, as many are. it's not just @ the black bottom of a well drops the coin of existence. we aren't just nothing--predominantly meaningless specks on a speck in a vacuum of specks. it's far worse than nothing. we're a disappearing act. we're something that's gone.
there's this apocryphal notion that first nation peoples believed photographs steal the soul. i can't attest to know if that's true--either claim. but somehow...
a child is made in likeness to it's family. genetics mandate it. in this way, a child is a type of image. an interpretation. a photograph that walks.
i see this picture of my mother. i have her nose, her cheeks, her smile. i worry often that i'm a thief. i don't deserve what i have, how could i? this woman, my mother, deserves it all.
perhaps it isn't stealing, but a gift. more soul morsels. like a finely spiced meal.
perhaps this is the gift.
hipbone recooks in iron
potted broth widens
sheaves of an apple
cored (2 azaleas
she held @ the bus
like Ottoman coins
fragile table legs
only 1 survives
(cold living soup)
that dares to call
The Original of Laura, Nabokov
The Book of Disquiet, Pessoa
Collected Works, Niedecker