One physicist told me: picture a bowling ball in the fabric,
the fabric caving in—why bodies fall toward one another,
spinning. How spacetime curves. My grandmother spoke of weight
in other ways: the hush between names in an unread ledger of losses.
I finger that line, the jagged edge of scab, the raw grain Ellison heard
scraping every blues. What do I do with this mass of memory
now bending every moment into its warp? She lost her mother
to fog-lung at nine, crossed alone to a house with chandeliers,
quiet corrections. Her eyes went dark when I asked about the war.
She kissed me once, called me her lost sister’s name,
then whispered into the rosary beads drawn from pocket to lips.
A song she didn’t teach me hums in my sleep.
Here is a shape made of silence. A dark bloom:
cells within cells, watched by a thousand quiet endings
spreading? Grief is such a mass, perhaps, when left unspoken:
a metastasis of memory in a land that names the stranger alien.
I am trying to reach mine, cannot find where it begins.
It arrived before language, encoded in the spiral of blood,
older than my name. Like starlight long gone, still arriving.
I squint into the most distant layer of stars: fine dust.
Some of it shines from bodies long dead,
their last emissions only now arriving
here. Their light arrives always without their names
like a jagged, cracked-open ledge,
this brief flesh against it,
struggling to sound.
*
This poem recently appeared in Sky Island Journal, Issue 35.
Wow. This is a stunning poem, Stacey. Physical and metaphysical weight baring down and intertwining as one.
Fine writing.
Chris, thank you for this generous reading. Wishing you an excellent weekend, friend. : )
My best to you too.
So many phrases that brought me to a stop … just beautiful
Very poignant and evocative verse Stacey. Big feelings.
I appreciate you, Brad. Thank you.
Congrats! That’s an excellent credit to add to the C. V.
Thank you for this, Bartholomew!
What a great text, Stacey! Congratulations on publishing it. You touched on several points that also play a major role in my thinking—or rather, in my attempt to progress spiritually. “The hush between names in an unread ledger of losses”—what a profound phrase! And especially: “Here is a shape made of silence. A dark bloom: cells within cells, watched by a thousand quiet endings.” (That’s what I try to achieve in some of my paintings.) Now I need to take a closer look at your articles, which I’ve been carelessly neglecting. 🙂
I am grateful for this kindred connection, Friedrich. My major questions/interests/ obsessions feel a deeply resonant presence in your art and in the way that you think about your process. Thank you, friend!
I often think, and am grateful for, that it no longer matters which continent we live on, because the internet transcends borders. However, if we’re not careful, it will create new ones. I, too, was so happy to find you as a kindred spirit, even though we don’t know each other personally. But our thoughts meet somewhere, and that’s wonderful. All the best, dear friend.
: )