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.