by Tifanie Thompson
The world is a hoax,
And the ultimate unknown is this:
This manipulation of its waning softness.
Slick calves and grinding teeth,
A war with no weapons but your limbs,
No strategy but your inadequate understanding.
I was unprepared for battle.
Naiveté blinded me,
But I have adapted. A sense for a sense,
And I no longer require light for awareness.
In fact, I have never known myself better
Than in this swift and total darkness,
Than in this dream
Where I can run my fingertips over this map, and
Sculpt eternity into a prisoner from the sheer will for this to define my infinity.
Where I can walk the terrain with my eyes closed
And show no fear when I inhale,
When I slide my tongue over my lips and hope
To catch just the briefest taste of this freedom
So that I might savor it for the approaching time
When I will be forced to trade senses.
And clothe myself in the light
And struggle to remember the flavor of lightlessness.