“Knowledge forbidden?
Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord
Envy them that? Can it be a sin to know?
Can it be death?”
We all want the devil to save us
in the way he does, by taking
blame. I myself wouldn’t be
so quick to speak ill of one
who has shown so much grace
in accepting guilt, however—even
if he has half the work ethic some books claim,
I’ve shared air with people who worked
twice as hard.
So I keep my head down
when I need to. I make calendars out of
string and Venn diagrams about
wristwatches and guns.
Every weapon holds some redemptive
benefit, you see, and every salvation poses
its own equal risk. Any blade can tell you
it is less lethal than
the clock.
The knife, for example—an instrument crated
to sever—can also be used to enter. To
visualize damage and repair it. I relieve living
tissue of dead. I cauterize every bleed
I find.
The needle—something used to suture, to
mend—can also be used to puncture, to instill.
I sew foreign coins into the linings of my coats.
I mark strange words into my skin.
One day, I’m going to invent
a reconstructive operation which creates
a new organ for holding memory. One day,
each of my most honest pleas will all be
re-discovered—now feral and fully grown—
within the haunted cathedrals in which they
were born. One day, I’m going
to be harder than the shit
life keeps finding
to hit me with.
Loneliness is a strange, piercing note
which reverberates inside of the body—tonight
a velodrome of instincts gone awry—drawing
you into the darkest of places. You don’t know
how to swim, but you still listen for the ocean
in every shell you find. Salt burns
in every wound.
How many times
have I heard the words, “Please
help me,” only to respond: “You’re
going to be okay”? How many different ways
can a person say “It hurts”?
How many different ways
can I say “I know,
I’m sorry”?
Listen:
You are going
to be okay.
It hurts.
I know.
I’m sorry.
Cierra Lowe, 2024