|Poorly Named Day
||[Dec. 11th, 2016|06:51 pm]
For a few moments now and then the clouds permitted the sun to almost reveal itself, its hazed brightness like a coin briefly glimpsed through turbid water. Then day faded to night without a sunset for denouement, a story turning dark instead of ending. Now nocturnal silence is fraught with tension, yet dull as dust. What terrible thing might lurk that is more terrible than ennui? |
by Cyril Wong
After great pain, what would the body
learn that it does not already know
of relief? When that fire-truck has raged
past, what do I rediscover about silence
except that I would always miss it?
Do trees mind if it is the same wind
that passes through their heads everyday?
After the mall is completed, must we
remember the field it now inhabits
where we raced each other as children?
If my lover forgets to wake me with a kiss
a second time this week, should I worry?
Does solitude offer strength over time, or
is denial of it the only practical aim?
After the earthquake, would it matter
if no one saw two dogs from different
families approaching each other
without suspicion, then moving apart?
As the workers wash their faces hidden
by helmets that beam back the sun,
should they care about the new building
behind them beyond a fear of it falling?
If my mother cannot see how else to be
happy, is it enough that she may lie
in bed, convinced God watches her sleep?
After deep loss, what does the heart
learn that it has not already understood
about regret? When all light finally
forsakes a room, do we take the time
to interrogate the dark, and to what end?