Tuesday, September 16, 2008

New Thing

“Our house is the last before the infinite.”

-Lawrence Weschler

They went to cut a passage through the ice
And in the end when there were only four left
they wandered around the Pole
for five years trying to get out

It was like a prison
It was worse than a prison

That must be why they dragged boats full of silverware behind them
leaving lines like wakes in the snow
They wanted to retain some semblance of beauty
of sanity

When the wide open expanses become like four walls around you
a polished silver blade reflecting back your own blackened face
explodes your amount of unwhite
unflurried scenery

There are days when I beg my husband to leave with me
with what we can carry and walk
Just walk until the four walls around us fall away
And we are left with nothing and everything

We could mourn for placemats and televisions
and pictures because we are beholden to them

Or we could step across the line of threshold and rejoice
in the wide open expanses as our four walls

And the mud will be our carpet
and every person we meet a wellspring of experience

A new thing

A polished silver blade

Submitted by Cassandra Long

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