Love and Words

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the zero of the bone

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Jeremy

stood on the edge of the bridge

and wondered what it would be like to fall.


Christiania  

dried the dishes her children washed carefully

and couldn't remember when she imagined 

this could be her all.


Destiny wondered 

if her name was promise or curse.


Edward wanted to believe

all his sorrow had worth.


And Susan,


Susan didn't talk to anyone. 

She silently chased the pills

with vodka she'd seen

advertising the promise of better things.


Now Susan

has nothing at all.


The body born contains

unwritten pages bound by soft bone.


There are no stories written on the skin.

No memory to tangle the hands.


Even the brain is unprotected,

wrapped in soft envelope,

padded with room to grow.

Nothing is finished when we begin.

No direction is written.


We are soft,

malleable,

full of possibility.

Having done nothing to make ourselves good.

Having done nothing that can be considered wrong.

We are at the beginning,

the zero of the bone.


The body born contains nothing,

everything it comes to know

it learns

as it goes.


Rising flying raising smooth planes of ceramic

like stars like hope reflecting a sky

that once revealed a map of the world

and now presses down,

returning us to the ground.


The starting point.


Only instead of nothing,

blank pages

and soft padding,

we are scarred memory.

Going left then right 

then back to the middle,

only to discover that for all the time that has passed, 

few have dared to ask,

and fewer have chosen to listen, 

to the answer of the meaning to it all.


The greater the distance we travel

the harder it is to remember

how we began.


Left then right then back to the middle,

few have dared to ask

and even fewer have chosen to listen.


Robert watched

through a window from a chair

he will never leave again.


Betty spun in circles

unaware

she turned.


And Cassandra,

Cassandra chose for once

to  begin.

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decagon          poetry 

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