Perhaps it is my future self
That stands behind a creaking pine
Along the hill that, in the sun,
Becomes a slow and labored climb.
I hope she sees that, though I slow,
I do not stop my quest to meet her
At the top, although I know her quiet knack
Of vanishing before we meet—
It is a skill I have honed well
And taught to her to spite myself.
I’ve seen a thousand visages
Bloom like day lilies
For an instant on
Your features and
In each one there’s this
Completeness, like a poem
That ends just like this.
When I run, and the metronome of my steps and breath begin to tick, some autonomic function in my brain begins involuntarily to count each step. I have trained this part of my brain to count in increments of 180 steps, as this roughly correlates to1 minute; 8-9 minutes is a mile. (And it's helpful that 180 is divisible by 3, because I take 3 steps for each inhale and 3 steps for each exhale). If I am mindful, I can tick off the miles with rough accuracy without looking at my watch. But despite the automatic nature of the counting itself, my ability to maintain focus long enough to remember which 180-step block I am in is hopelessly flawed; my mind always wanders to other topics and I forget where I am.
As my concentration slips and I realize I have lost my simple, monotonous thread, two separate mental functions-- perhaps best referred to as my conscious and unconscious mind-- begin to work along separate lines. My unconscious mind is a great flatterer; it would always have me believe that I have run further than I actually have. Knowing this from long experience, my conscious mind makes corrections; it backs up the mental count; forces me to start counting anew in the middle of a cycle; it over-corrects for the weakness of the subconscious mind.
Both my subconscious and my conscious mind are aware of their deceptions, which lean in opposing directions and attempt to cancel each other out. They seek, through compromise, to convene at the point of truth-- seek to perceive accurately and without external assistance, the position of my body as it moves through time-- an inner and outer harmony achieved through the rough, inescapable mechanics of self-deception.
To arrive at a correct understanding is perhaps not to avoid self-deception but to understand fully its mechanics, and to correct for them.
Eve
I am that She who slaked her need
Underneath the apple tree,
Who cursed the whole of womankind
Through our yet unbroken bloodline.
“Yes I would do it all again,”
Say both pride and humility—
And that is because the two are one
As long as we continue to bleed.
Sprung fully formed from the mind of a god
And an Apgar score that’s off the charts,
She can see the world in six dimensions at once,
Tracing every intention back to its heart.
She will give you a gift that will meet you halfway
In becoming who you’re meant to be,
And she’ll make you a spider
If you sit down beside her
And dare to think you could ever outshine her.
She crouches behind opposing perspectives
Then holds up a mirror to show your reflection.
Perhaps at twelve, as Mary perhaps was,
I may have said yes out of love,
Or at least I would have thought that’s what it was.
Consent, to faith, is a strange drug.
When Gabriel left and silence fell,
And the impossible came to dwell
In such a space as small as me,
I may have felt the infinite
Reflecting on the price of love
That weds it to its opposite—
How could it ever (always) be
That women house such mystery?
Sprung fully formed from the mind of a god
And an Apgar score that’s off the charts,
She can see the world in six dimensions at once,
Tracing every intention back to its heart.
She will give you a gift that will meet you halfway
In becoming who you’re meant to be,
And she’ll make you a spider
If you sit down beside her
And dare to think you could ever outshine her.
She crouches behind opposing perspectives
Then holds up a mirror to show your reflection.
Perhaps at twelve, as Mary perhaps was,
I may have said yes out of love,
Or at least I would have thought that’s what it was.
Consent, to faith, is a strange drug.
When Gabriel left and silence fell,
And the impossible came to dwell
In such a space as small as me,
I may have felt the infinite
Reflecting on the price of love
That weds it to its opposite—
How could it ever (always) be
That women house such mystery?
I am that She who slaked her need
Underneath the apple tree,
Who cursed the whole of womankind
Through our yet unbroken bloodline.
“Yes I would do it all again,”
Say both pride and humility—
And that is because the two are one
As long as we continue to bleed.
