The Other Day I Was In A Monologue With Myself

The Other Time I Was In A Monologue With Myself

 

“My mother forbad us to walk backwards.

that is how the dead walk, she would say.” – Anne Carson. 

 

I try to turn my sins against me with a straight face

but like the lores of the mountains are hidden

beneath the stones of the earth, I leave them under

the nakedness of my skin. & this is where unbelief begins;

you chase transgressions up the tree of morality. at the choir

session, three verses are sung in my mother tongue as they

attempt to church me. This is a story frequent in history

but nobody has ever smiled towards it: a boy wakes up

and watches his faith wear away, then he is tethered away from

what can be loved & dropped at the edge of tragedy. What is

morality if not a divine dream of human behaviour?

& what is a dream if not the pleating of two realms

into a pair of shut eyes? life is born, but death lingers—

meaning our bodies are formed from hands dipped in

darkness & things not of light have secret attraction, ask

the black hole. I wish to God my body a guise of flowers,

I don’t know what I mean by that, but I mean it. Is it not how to serve God when our faith is dead? how prayers decay

into wishes & water our tongue in days of sorrow. My love

died in July, what is most painful is that another July is nigh

& my love will die again—even in remembrance. I have found

that ironies are the mathematics of language, because how does

one solve the equation of a thing dying even in its remembrance? that would be walking backwards like the dead & our mother already forbade us.

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