Explaining those Poems You Would Never Understand

If you go back

do not suffer

the space between.

Do not suffer

the reckless judgment

in the space between.

Beware.

There was no present

no present between

no present anywhere.

There was no sense

no right response

no haven to be had.

Do not worry.

You will never know

about it—the space

between radiance and insanity—not ever.

Sacrificed

between sound and affinity

it has nothing to do

with you or you

or those poems

you would never understand.

Explaining them, she will not claim

the air—do you believe?

Even if you ask,

she will not tell you about it:

it does not speak, walk, stand, sit

or eat anymore.

It does not exist, anymore, but

if it did, would it still appear as stone

or truth?

Listen, the sound moves from one spine

to the other.

Listen, the paths cross ten thousand miles

up the road.

Listen, the scribbles curve at the beginning

and end, loving you immediately,

loving narcissistically

what she suspected and never

knew. Nevertheless, she will not explain

to you the space

between radiance and insanity,

those poems you will never understand:

their codes, signals, the enigma

of betrayal. Since you are a man,

She will not assume

you do not want her

to explain.

She will not assume that

at all. But

being the man you are, and a man

among men, this man and that one—

that one who wears those coded clothes—

that one who utters syllables of chaos—

that one who sprawls across the horizon

of sunsets—

you would know him if you saw him

living now,

replete with vowels and space and right action.

Take a moment.

Try. Try. Try to hear him—

his footsteps across glass:

his specific insanity:

his wrong perception:

his right admission.

If you will hear him,

reach inside his coat of musk

and pull. Yes, pull on his organs—

the vital ones—the ones above

the belt—that one—his heart

and yes—the other one—his lungs breathing

pebbled memories of it:

not knowing why.

Why he believed

believing even

his perception of lies.

Oh, if he had never tempted the fantasy

of hot oil, the thing-in-itself,

would he have smelled the sizzling

tempura on

the other side of the wall,

excused himself and sat down beside

the dinner

laid out for him?

Forgive her.

She has gotten carried away

recreating the real motive

of those poems

you would never understand—

those concealed poems of images

like wet clothes hanging

on a clothesline behind

a brick rowhouse in the city

somewhere

under sunlight

those clothes

each image

each shred of cloth

each skein of memory

waiting to dry. If only

she had felt

the key in her hand

the effortless intuition of space

between radiance and insanity

to change it

to back it up

before the reel

got stuck.

Do not worry.

She will never explain what

no longer needs

explaining. The sunset vanishes

long before

she wrote those poems

you would never understand.

Originally published in Guillinna on Four Wheels by Sandra Squire Fluck. Available on Apple Books and Amazon Kindle.


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