a poem by Gillian Prew

the weight of lacking

There was a movement I could not feel
caught up in a mild dystopia and waving
things goodbye: I know not what. There is

a quiet detail to it all, such an intricate silence
I cannot undo. The memories are twisted,
like wrung washing on the lap of an old woman,
and I, not there yet but travelling. Now cleanses

me for a moment if I imagine the scope of astronomy
and the burn of body upon body, which is the burn of love
announcing its heat in an act, or even a pleasurable struggle.

If long enough is an option there may be the peace of a cat
being itself in the sun, but I am human, never
so wholly satisfied. We try to alleviate
the weight of our lacking, and that is what art is for.

© by Gillian Prew

 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #10 ~ July 2010