by Eleanor Goldfield
that cold consuming storm
suffers no lack of description –
is not tempered by ignorance or experience –
even the most fortified succumb –
as if solid stone were nothing
but stacked blades of grass…
and as we flail in this wind,
our bodies lash and our limbs fly frail –
the siren call of calm feels ludicrous –
absurd, impossible –
at best a discredit to the spring of this storm…
I can weather this?
with my mind fixed
on its would be assassin –
or if I can not – I will die
and in death become a conduit of tempests –
a passive passage for cold consuming storms –
a repeater circuit,
stuck in a groove of its own electricity.
But no, I do not want this storm to take me –
I am not ready for my soul to pass
to this storm’s whipping whims.
I can not control it –
any more than I can control the weather –
but I may weather it.
Cliche – but for a reason –
This treason to poetry a relief for my solitude
Still, I may find a hole in the depths of myself –
one I have never seen before –
I may carve it out of my living breath –
create it in this jagged slow haste
that mocks the passage of time –
and as I dig I will falter –
find myself stuck in the toxic mud that theories my arrogance –
for if I am worthy of outliving this storm,
am I not pedestaling my own life
above the sunken soul
that gave birth to these winds?
I will fumble with answers and find none that fit –
I will scrape myself raw –
building a bunker that keeps the wind out,
but floods with the surges I let rinse my doubt.
And so we will dance, this damned storm and I –
unfit partners cast in this twisted remake –
we will blow and shout and rumble
the storm will be no worse for wear –
it will pass as senselessly as it came –
it will polish the sky so the brilliance will blind –
will never be the same
yes, the storm will pass – but this jagged abyss will remain –
that bunker will keep – an imprint –
a macabre fossil of pain
and I will visit again –
before the end.
I’m quite sure.
The clouds overhead promise me so –
over the ruins of my freshly dug depths – grave.
At time it will seem impossible – that I ever was there –
that this storm and I ever came to blows –
but then I’ll hear an echo –
of rumbles, I’ll see –
reflections in someone’s drenched eyes –
and then I’ll feel it –
the press of that imprint – gripping my mind.
Another day, another forecast
another questioning sky
another fragile step outside.