Brigits_Flame August Week Two: Inertia
There are two things you need to know about this poem before you continue reading (if you are reading in the first place): 1) It is a very loose interpretation of inertia. So loose that it mightn't even actually be an interpretation of inertia. More like 'what happens when you make a change so big that you can no longer make any more.' 2) This is an experimental sestina, so it's long and in need of a lot of work.
Six weeks today, did I remember?
The others tell me to pray for help
but my faith is no longer blind.
You lay in my arms that day, so light.
I rocked you until you gave in to sleep.
I never wanted to let you go.
The shadows come when the people go.
She could have been yours, they whisper, remember?
The fog descends, but it doesn't bring sleep;
it's the weak solace of pills prescribed to help.
Night swallows day, dark skulks from the light.
I watch the endless chase through the thin blind.
The first day I went out, I turned a blind
eye to every pram. I didn't watch them go,
their cargo gurgling and reaching for the sun light.
How did I find my way home? I don't remember.
People fuss and tut when I refuse their help.
I turn over in the bed and feign sleep.
I imagine you in their house, fast asleep.
Jack and his beanstalk adorn the blind.
If I held you one last time, would it help?
Would I still be able to let you go?
My hand signed the papers, that I remember.
My heart left heavy, my arms left light.
Already you are fading, the dark hounding the light.
I close my eyes and try to picture you as you sleep.
Swaddled? Sprawled on your back? I can't remember.
The shape of your eyes, your smile, will I become blind
to them too? Will they wither and shrivel, go
so far away that they can't be found without a photo's help?
Forgetting would be easier, but it wouldn't help.
Now you might be their little ray of light,
but you were mine once, before I let you go.
I dream of that day whenever I sleep:
how I kissed your silk-smooth cheek, how you were blind
to my goodbye. They say it's best you don't remember.
I don't want their help to live, I want their permission to sleep.
There I will find you, cradle you, light as a feather, both of us blind
to how I will let you go. This moment is mine to remember.