after The Uncertainty of the Poet by Giorgio de Chiroco
I feel this indecision:
am I a banana,
alone, or in a bunch?
Certainly anonymous,
certainly not autonomous.
Am I a statue,
chalk-white with ages,
headless and limbless,
just tits and ass?
Yes, I am a looker.
Yes, I am gazeless.
Stone collides
with the stoneless,
the easily mushed.
These are my choices?
Is that a choo-choo coming,
rattle and clack,
my ship coming in,
faceless, launched?
What door should I be
slouching towards?
If I go in, is there any guarantee
I'll come out again?
I don't have to be frozen.
I don't have to lie here, scattered,
creeping towards impending rot,
having never known the pleasure
of being peeled and eaten,
of being halved for the I scream
you scream and a cherry
on top. I don’t
have to watch
the shadows creep
despite that blue sky.
I am form.
I can have both:
these marble bones and this
highly bruisable skin.
I can be clad only
in dimples and folds,
testament of bygones,
when the cushion still pushed,
sustenance unconsumed.
My trunk implies
I am rootless,
a turn-about fair player,
both goer and stayer,
lingerer at thresholds.
Yes, the dark is light.
Yes, it's now, then.
Yes, these stairs lead down
into dirt, or else water.
A cut branch gives at least
one last time. This shoot
may latch again.
The answer is always
depart.
Depart.
alone, or in a bunch?
Certainly anonymous,
certainly not autonomous.
Am I a statue,
chalk-white with ages,
headless and limbless,
just tits and ass?
Yes, I am a looker.
Yes, I am gazeless.
Stone collides
with the stoneless,
the easily mushed.
These are my choices?
Is that a choo-choo coming,
rattle and clack,
my ship coming in,
faceless, launched?
What door should I be
slouching towards?
If I go in, is there any guarantee
I'll come out again?
I don't have to be frozen.
I don't have to lie here, scattered,
creeping towards impending rot,
having never known the pleasure
of being peeled and eaten,
of being halved for the I scream
you scream and a cherry
on top. I don’t
have to watch
the shadows creep
despite that blue sky.
I am form.
I can have both:
these marble bones and this
highly bruisable skin.
I can be clad only
in dimples and folds,
testament of bygones,
when the cushion still pushed,
sustenance unconsumed.
My trunk implies
I am rootless,
a turn-about fair player,
both goer and stayer,
lingerer at thresholds.
Yes, the dark is light.
Yes, it's now, then.
Yes, these stairs lead down
into dirt, or else water.
A cut branch gives at least
one last time. This shoot
may latch again.
The answer is always
depart.
Depart.
Depart
Lauren Scharhag is the author of fourteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 150 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, three Best of the Net nominations, and acceptance into the 2021 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com
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