Interlude In a Saturday moment, the fragmented glimmerings of rainbows crystallize in feelings, sights, and smells, capturing the myriad, conflicting sensations and feelings. Some things are preserved this way. Immobilized, secured the tension of a minute’s breakdown into seconds of hands clicking and shaking with violent trembling, their violence breaking with imminent realization, awakens in me that catalyst lying dormant, lurking in the shadows of the everpresent weight of gloom/terror (lurking, as I said). Why these questions? Why these monsters under the bed? These quiverings in our stomachs? If I knew I wouldn’t be able to spell them, not write them, not say them, but spell them with the precision and accuracy required for perfect understanding. Gloom/terror, what difference does it make? The same ingredients pour into our cars as into our bodies. These things we take for granted muck about in the ordinaries the Wellingtons and the slickers, the ocarinas of Butterfield Road and Scottsdale Circle. They pour into us with measured clarity, hoping for the best. Wishing us the best for the New Year, and for life. I wait in the cul-de-sac, gripping the rolled-up parchment, the treasure map of the lost kings. Cigarette butts tempt us, she and me, while rollerskates bruise our knees, over and over and over again. The ripe strawberries glisten on vines at our feet. We eat the tomatoes and plums— all are ripe! and cold! and young! And the sandmine dolphin waits for us, today or tomorrow— or in the next summer’s blinding heat. Like the gossamer threads of silk spun for the emperor of China never touched by daylight or sweat, the dress twirls in the afternoon breeze, one, two, three. But even ballerinas stub their bloody toes on concrete sometimes. Like suitcases packed and ready to go, at a moment’s notice. And we all have our time to cut out and run, to run and never come back. It’s time. And the seconds have counted down, from sixty to one to none. It’s Sunday, you can tell by the tolling bells. Things have changed so little, the pristine states remain, the soiled rags—still torn. the crisp grey underbelly still waiting for its moment of realization crystallization again, like the tossed off shell of a cocoon.
Crystal R. Chweh's Questions:
In this poem, I try to deal with the passing of time and recurring memories.
I'm trying convey a sense of nostalgia that is painful but also hopeful. What
do you think about the paragraph breaks and punctuation? Are they effective?
Is the imagery and progression clear and consistent? Does the poem evoke
feelings/memories in you? Do you feel my frustration with and confusion about
the passing of time? I'm not committed to the title. Does it seem to fit the