A Willingness to Contemplate

poetry

Nov 16

I'd like to look,
but I'm afraid
I might
burst into bits.
Shatter-straight-split
through my middle.

[So I think I'll grind a while longer—
—move the needle,
with all the breaking bones
in my body;
all the muscles—
nerves—
worn thin.]

Because presence
is a darkness
I might find
when I drop low—
into the belly of knowing;
into the suffering
of my brother.

What if?
There
I find
the stoking of a
fire?
Anger?
Desire?
Can I hold
his pain
and mine?

So. Much. Risk.
No matter how
we slice it.
Regardless
of how
we think we hide it.

Nothing is decided.
Decide it.

poetryfearactionrisk

Explode