He calls out my core constitution;
Challenges me to observe myself past my reflection.
It is as if he is familiar with my awaiting discovery; wants to observe me as I go sifting. When I am elated at what I find, he is overjoyed [though never surprised].
He knew my potential all along.
I have never credited my father with knowing me. However, lately--his knowing quiets my lack thereof. So much of my young adulthood has been spent searching for the miracle that will concrete the void.
I have this vision of myself.
I am incredibly small: Thumbelina, even. I am digging out the chest cavity of a corpse with those shiny silver spoons Anne Sexton always references. *To be completely honest, I have no idea why Sexton is infatuated with spoons. Perhaps it is because they are the perfect metaphor: The way our faces distort in them [like funhouse mirrors], the way--despite the enamoring light ricocheting off their glistening, silvery surfaces--they are [in reality] quiet dull and hopeless. Or perhaps it is because [despite their pointlessness] they are delicate and lovely like so many obsoletes.*
All of this to say,
I--
Equipped with a looped array of clanking spoons--
Am ordained to breathe life
Into the heart
Wilting behind the rib cages of
[ ].
I could theorize.
Perhaps that person is me:
All of me.
Who I was ten years ago,
Who I was last month--
Last Monday;
Who I am today.
All those whom I've hated,
Perhaps it is those too.
I fantasize a great deal about color erupting from its esophagus, springing forth in powder form--making paisley, cloud formations.
The life is always sky bound.
And there is God.
My father opened a treasure chest with my beliefs bound. They did not ask permission.
Neither will I
Ever again.
I speak for myself.
I am incredibly small: Thumbelina, even. I am digging out the chest cavity of a corpse with those shiny silver spoons Anne Sexton always references. *To be completely honest, I have no idea why Sexton is infatuated with spoons. Perhaps it is because they are the perfect metaphor: The way our faces distort in them [like funhouse mirrors], the way--despite the enamoring light ricocheting off their glistening, silvery surfaces--they are [in reality] quiet dull and hopeless. Or perhaps it is because [despite their pointlessness] they are delicate and lovely like so many obsoletes.*
All of this to say,
I--
Equipped with a looped array of clanking spoons--
Am ordained to breathe life
Into the heart
Wilting behind the rib cages of
[ ].
I could theorize.
Perhaps that person is me:
All of me.
Who I was ten years ago,
Who I was last month--
Last Monday;
Who I am today.
All those whom I've hated,
Perhaps it is those too.
I fantasize a great deal about color erupting from its esophagus, springing forth in powder form--making paisley, cloud formations.
The life is always sky bound.
And there is God.
My father opened a treasure chest with my beliefs bound. They did not ask permission.
Neither will I
Ever again.
I speak for myself.
