It’s the smallest, sweetest patch of land
and I’m always staring out into it
always making it more than it seems to seem
always stuffing my swollen edges, my broken bones, my birthless wonders into the coverlets and corridors of
into the lacework metalmanship of Creation’s wide hands
always staring into branches and rooting myself into silver slivers of sacred spiderwebs
always taking chunks full of earth into my mouth
into the roof of my belly just to smell it
just to ingest that toxic fume of wonder
Flowing through test tubes
and subjugate to the subjective
to the real reeling of the wind turbine
of film reels spinning carousel breath
from your every inch of everything
from your chapter of age- the prologue before the
prologue before the initiation
of language to our lungs
and how is your Freudian ambivalence feeling?
Maybe Freud will adopt me and I’ll remember
what it feels like to be a son, to be the sun, to burn up
in the atmosphere twice a day
the fundamental fear of arithmetic
the words that wind themselves up
the subtle signature of DNA signing its name
at the base of your primal prime number nonsense.
What’s after seven? And who invented thirteen?
The mouth of the mother and the several salvations that
all wanted to become sentient- they called themselves
consciousness but what they really were was a reality rope tying truth to time.
Condense, make sense, re-rinse your radiation,
Lauren Suchenski is a fragment sentence-dependent, ellipsis-loving writer and lives somewhere where the trees change color. As a poet, ballet dancer, actress, photographer, painter, mother and Waldorf educator, Lauren believes in the inherent creative capability within all people.