The Shape of Things
I veer toward lucid incomprehensibility and squint. I know nothing and
linger by chance in the pause. The nervous system assesses risk, to fly
or freeze, or measure the length of breath. Earth’s axis, I’m told, is off,
the poles unfixed, opinions digging a deep divide among the metrically
challenged. I’m not taking sides – if you catch my polar rift. A poem tilts
toward verisimilitude unlike a chronic headache or chrome bumper replaced
by a polypropylene one for the way it gives. A poem promises to do no harm
and breaks a vowel of silence. Which is why I hear what isn’t said and told
between lines. What’s left may not be right. I sit to see you and you see me.
Imagine shadows and hair highlights lit. Imagine no terror of touch and learning
the names of trees: oak, elm, spruce, willow, eucalyptus, pawpaw, baobab.
Determining the shortest distance between points is pointless. Any spot
attracts meaning. I’d rather count sheep and walk the field between.
Somewhere In the Middle
As it was before resembles the velvet head rest yet the rest of
the head angles down, the chin inching to the chest. Before the
bear broke into the shed, the china was stored in the cabinet with
the broken hinge. Before the official arrested my neighbor for not
registering his car, the rust on the shed was scraped and swept into
a pile scattered by wind. Before the store closed, customers roamed
isles for poorly made goods. Before you agreed that downtown was
disagreeable you lamented the ease of parking. I registered this a
complaint but you preferred a free-for-all. Everything has a cost, I say,
but you crossed your arms and threatened to leave by the back door as
you’ve done before. What it was like before is unliking the way before
us. Where’re you going with this, you asked. I explained I’m going
nowhere because I’m not returning to the way it wasn’t. I stand up for
myself while seated. I remember forgetting the flames and placing the
resonant bowls and carved oak on the porch in the rain. The pain of
dying is not worth looking backward. I wish the saying recalled my
name, be it stone or wood, blood or sea. Once we were content with
absences but now I dance gladly shoeless in the middle of this phrase.
How Much Is the Worth
Resisting the path is a path. Insisting the path is a path. Palpating a knot
in the belly is a path. I will not say what guides you in deference to what
guides you despite misgivings. Burned before, I would rather you extinguish
fires. I know what you’re thinking is thought. Pushing away thought is a
thought. If you want to expel, I’ll get out of the way. Getting out of the way
like getting in the way is a way. Meet choice head on or belly first. My tongue
twists less than your misdirections but that’s me being derelict with inflections.
No harm intended. Saying what can’t be said is hearsay. Refusing to say is an
admonition of guilt. You can’t have it both ways unless both ways take hold
and then you may as well stay for the night. Listen to the inner voice and
witness the childlike gaze follow you around the room. There’s light, of course,
but open eyes in dreams strain logic and requires preparation like meditating
on the ah, the oh, and the awe. Every word would like a word with you. Gather
adverbs selectively. Consider replacements, blanks, and hold off for a vagal pause.
—
Cheryl Pallant is the author of several poetry books. These poems are from Light at the End of the Word, to be released in 2024 by BlazeVOX Books. She has authored several nonfiction books as well, most recently, Ecosomatics: Embodiment Practices for a World in Search of Healing by Inner Traditions. Her poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have appeared in numerous print and online magazines such as Empty Mirror, Fence, Oxford Magazine, Café Irreal, and in several anthologies. She teaches writing and dance at University of Richmond.