Post-Construction #1

(for C.)

Sister – they built you in a fist
bundling pain, hometown, sneers, et etcetera,
before you woke in the empty rooms of body.
Grappling is what the fist does best: a state.
And the best that history does is break
into sticks. Here, is a stick for your hometown, halved.
There, is a recombination pattern in those stories:
deep within your hair ends the axioms
of loss, losing definition. Grasp
the space adjacent to your lulling body,
connecting the logic of past and future
which must slip, and grow away from your unclasped fingers.

Parallel Truths (20/04/2019)

"My brother and my sister don't speak to me / but I don't blame them"

- James Blake, "I Never Learnt To Share" (2011)

Alternatives (Schrödinger, 1952)
are another way of saying loss:
how Little Sis cried when Mom
reconsidered her own abortion;
Big Sis forgets to miscarry Mom;
a stranger owns my blog domain.
The wrong timeline a synonym to
this poem, a symptom of anomaly.