Simultaneous Elegy
I.
It ended when I found flakes of myself
in the snowfall. When I spoke in places
I knew I could not be heard, whispered
his name until it felt like the power went out,
the floorboards caved into the basement.
I want to learn to fall asleep on fire,
warm myself in the trap. Our skins,
the body of a flame. I’ve forgotten how
to burn. When the snow melts, I melt with it.
I wash myself in the water, say happy birthday.
Pretend you can be born a second time.
II.
Every morning, I remind the dead
to stop breathing. How else could I know
where a body ends? When a ghost dies,
it is born again. This is a lie: I want to learn
where a body begins. How it can exist
in a space where nothing lives, nothing grows.
The distance from here to holy.
Two narratives: tainted, untouched.
So quick, how a needle can drop
and never make a sound. Living a second
time, a room never emptied. One truth:
staring at the ceiling, the weight of the air
stronger than a body. So simple,
knowing and not knowing.
| Amanda Silberling |
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