Poetremi

The Bony Truth of Loss 

they told us they’d found

the blackest black.

a material so black it absorbs all but 0.035

percent of all the light.

so dark your eyes trip up on themselves

trying to perceive the absence in the abyss.

and i wondered how that differed

from the gauze wrapped around my lineage

causing my eyes to fail

when asked to imagine

the route and path of the light

and dark that got me here.

they say the fibres which make up

this blackest black

are so minute

that light gets trapped.

and i think that’s what must have happened

to the streams of my great grandmother’s past

and her grandmother’s path

darkness weaved in darkness

save that 0.035 percent of something bright. 

fine enough to slice through cane.

And i think now how black is

the total absorption of light.

it is the gobbling up of all hues

the taking in of every incandescence

where silence speaks of abundance,

how essence comes to know itself.

and a luminous black blazes

gleams in the face of

burns in spite of

shines when it seems there is nothing to reflect.

no wonder our eyes fail us at the sight

of everything masquerading as nought.

i don’t know what they mean when they say

they have discovered the blackest black

I’ve lived with it nestled in my gut for the longest time,

long enough to know that

the darkest dark

holds the most light.

and they say it’s the closest we can get

to a black hole in real life.

but I’m still really not quite sure what

they think they’ve discovered

for it is the blackest black that brought us here

and though I have not seen a black hole’s insides.

I know it bares fruit,

with time,

to watch men leaving cubicles with remnant drips of piss on their laps, and stoic embarrassment hidden on their faces, or drunken self hate on their tongues.

to see obesity shudder at the prospect of fitting through turnstiles too small for their body’s body.

to see pastors shuffle past, wondering if the guilt comes out in the bowl, if it will wash down the sinkhole.

to remember the conversation you had less than a weekend ago, where a woman said - I don’t want to die in Syria.

to see the faces of those who never smile.

to realise things, like people and crowds move in waves,

in peaks and troughs always, 

ones you can not see if you are in the throes of the thing.

only distance offers such clarity of sight.

When life is lost

Nothing stops

The sky does not open up

To tell the cosmos’ tale of woe.

No minutes are silenced to let

The air of condolence through.

For all intents and purposes the world is exactly the same,

Body crying                                                                                                                                           sweat rains into skin                                                                                                                           and tepid bathwater.

Weeping for no reason                                                                                                                     other than heat.                                                                                                                                     Simmering in it.                                                                                                                                 Sweat makes its way down                                                                                                                 as steam starts its ascent.

There is too much heat                                                                                                                       too much fear                                                                                                                                       too much hate                                                                                                                                       too much self                                                                                                                                         too much mind.

Like snowflakes we fall

Seemingly individual in our infinitesimal tragedies.

The terror of the drop,

The beauty of the journey.

And yet each vertical passage

Despite its unique path

Results in the same choreographed fate;

A gentle -  or abrupt - but sure landing

Where self melts into concrete and allness.

Should the lucky ones meet a warm face on the way down,

Or rest a while on the wing of a bird, the branch of a tree,

Or ride the wind to land a little further afield

Still snowflakes meet their end as we all do:

A part and a whole.

Selfless and full of all selves.