The World Is In Me
by Irene Toh
New moon. Smudged words I had been trying
to read. Dizzyingly thick, plots flew into
a witch’s pot. I tried tetchily to transcend.
What to toss? My faltering sight spiked.
Cupping eyeballs. Pray do not leave me now.
Prelude to change. Tempest unreconciled.
Green bottled drink. Lines break. Sensations
as discontinuous threads. A layer of moss.
Clumps sprung in green. My son begins
a new road. Gift of a rare red plume.
Time grew mythical. All my life sharpened into
a point. Then a wrecking ball. Which remembers
more, mind or body? What do we fear, having
nothing to remember? When both dissemble,
a crumbly matter. Others bear dull witness.
This February morning, bathed in the memory of
another. We have courted, opened as flowers.
Aquariums never die. My nephew sits, watches
corals, how the goby fish burrows sand. Who is
watching? Dry-eyed now. My term ending.
We’re a series of births & deaths evolving.
Spring’s rebirth. The memory of incidents
faded. Mouths opening like fish. I know now
what I want clearly. This is what was given me.
In the velvet of petals, filaments of desire
remembering, yet not of the mind, nor of the body.
Words seived in the receptacle: I am not in the
world. Sand danced around the spongy edges of
radial corals. My son looked through the glass.
What could be a greater truth? The world is in me.