Recreation
a part of the Imagà Imaginings project on Chalkboard
Outstretched
Hand, conforms to my shape of
Being, foreign in the sense
Of collected remembrances
Traces…
That reach inside my guts
Reforming lost pieces
Of thick magma I’d melted off
Refusal
Of belief, since I’d been lost before
To far more than an outline
Far more than a beginning
Denial —
I’d watched the ending
Seen the end scene, unwritten and playing
Undead things that insist
To be recast
Nonetheless
I didn’t choose it
I didn’t want it
My hands folded
In tight little paper clips
Unmovable
My lap, where they had been
Contemplating their release daily
Cast me in angled vision
Flew
Out the window in
Papers I tried to catch
Thoughts I dared not wrangle
Escape
Not so much as one swift thought
Which to let slip through
Which to let shape new me
Coasting
Into a shiny whole
One flick of hand offers
A lick of lips choosing
Sometimes —
Trust is not a leap
It it not a given
It is not to be earned
It is sprinkled
Both
Liberally
as well as deliberately
In one hand
Opened by choice
To an undeniable sense
Of precarious possibility
To see who chooses
To swallow it whole
This is a response to the Imagà Imaginings prompt by Dewi.
