like water in water —George Bataille
Eggs, transparent and sometimes red-veined as insect wings, might be hidden
in bark crevices
or a scatter of tawny leaves.
The distance between one gestation and the next, a pleat of the dress I wear
as if I could sew myself another.
Practiced, my tendon-reflex where the tunnel narrows its halo
into a noose. I trust
dexterity as a kind of nourishment, as I believe my own
To own, beauty is the first lie of it, and brief
thistles turning silver in sunrise as if for my eyes alone.
I see you surround me, mother, measuring what my exoskeleton
is thin. When the eye inside blinks, its bone-house splinters. No eye inside sky
but an insect
drone can cause the entire horizon, seasonal
which follows rain. No death
will stop measurement
spiraling out, a long ribbon of salt I must choose repeatedly to cross.
|About this poem:|
"Michel Serres tells us that 'every form is draped in an infinity of adherences'; this has haunted my writing for some time. I’ve begun a series of poems in which I want to un-'drape' subjects that I have written about in the past, and release them from the upper layers of 'adherences' of meaning that I have previously explored. Beneath my understanding of these subjects, I am finding a sense of fable, and it is at that level I’ve begun to work. The writings of Bataille have been an excellent provocation for me in this work, as I seek a deeper, more disquieting relationship to the known, to what I perceive as the knowable and the unknowable."