I have know the inexorable sadness of pencils. Unused, unsharpened, erasers hardened, stuck in ceramic cylinders, just one in the crowd, waiting to be picked up, held tight, tip pressed to the broad, endless, white expanse, feeling the push of small fingers as they roll, turn, and release, as thoughts drip through veins, surge in electric currents to nerves, making sense of the dance of graphite on page.
There are wolves in the next room, waiting. Grey beasts, silent, brooding. One licks his face, sighs, and eases his body down to the floor. These wolves lie at the foot of my bed at night, seemingly bored, disinterested, but there, nonetheless. I can feel their clear blue eyes on me as they steal small looks, checking to make sure that I know that they know.
Piece by piece I seem to reenter the world. A hand, an elbow, knee, and toe. A jumble of parts, unfocused, and fuzzy. A Picasso paining, nose askew, eyes on one side of my head, like a flounder fish caught flat on my back, yet sideways. Pressed beneath the weight of the world, breathing shallow and focused. Just enough oxygen to sustain life--but not enough too nurture it.
How long did I live the life of a flounder, unmoving, deadened? It was warm there, comfortable, half buried in the soft silky sand of life.
Now it's all been stirred up, my safe little world, and me with it. I float over to catch an ear, paddle toward my right breast, kick off of the bottom to reach a thigh. Who am I? What shall I become?
With thanks to Theodore Roethke, Allan Tate, and Adrienne Rich.
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