“O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.”
William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act II, Scene II.
The music I used to hear dances
along my nerves. I sit quietly,
smiling faintly. As I dismantle
all evidence of the life I knew
I discover little lightning seeds
that spark across the chasm once named
Memory, and now just called Rubble.
Each day oscillates between what shrinks
and what expands, what I once could do
and what I can, sweet jazz and pounding,
a clock that crumbles into dry ash
or measuring cups overflowing
with uncooked rice and broken nut bars.
My cupboard is full of spice: curry,
fennel, marigold and mint, basil
and blooming. It’s a weapon: praising
what used to be, attacking what is.
Oh, there is so much to see unseen.
Rosefire Rising 