Sunday, April 12, 2020

Plastics is Not the Word

No idea where I was or when,
when the word became my savior,
where it remains, relieving now
corona dread.


Just one word.
Tripped me
with my head somewhere else,
tripping in a way,
were it my feet,
releasing all sorts of words
some imprudent to reveal
even here.

Or was it more than once,
tripping in various ways
or simply showing up
as part of a background
but standing out
in an upstaging way,

All I know is at some point
I took a closer look,
picked it up, studied its
trying to grasp why it wouldn't
abide my insularity.

Now that it had my attention,
showing me its power,
resembling the effect I imagine
of a depth charge on a submarine, except
this impact healed

something I hadn't understood
wanted healing, thinking
ailments were up to me
to feel and know
and try to mend.

But now the metaphor is sticking—
what is happening?

Do harmonic wisps of this word
burrow through layers
of conditioned reflex,
cognitive complexities, fragile certainties,
brushing past teasing tangents
on its rush to the core and into
primal magma?

Does it merge with mystery there,
quieting womb-borne quakes,
bringing them into heart?

Simple intuitive maternal cognate?


                                                                                                                          m.d. paust

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