artwork: unknown chinese ceramist
by Anneliese Finke
I’m beginning to think that they’ve all
been used before. The fireworks of the
neurons that fire in your brain, the hands
that flutter like wings and crack like bark,
even the stars that shine in your eyes.
Everything new is ridiculous. Should I say,
your hands are flapping like carp
drowning when someone reaches down
to pull them into the air? That the fine lines
on them are like tin foil that, once used,
can never be smoothed out again? Maybe
these metaphors work, somehow, maybe
they’re just nonsense, your eyes are like
the power indicator on my tv antenna.
Controlled by a little plastic dial?
Bright and surrounded by darkness?
Keeping me awake at night?
It all falls apart. There’s nothing else to say
but this: There is a man. He looks sad.
I saw him, lying in his white bed.
When I saw his eyes, I thought,
he must know something awful.
But after all, I am no closer to it,
I will never be any closer to him,
~ first published in Ruminate