Issue #54


Authors

SCHRÖDINGER'S QUESTION

I am trying to write what can’t be spoken,

            convey what can only be felt. Love was not

            enough to save us, nor will it be enough

            to spare me, but nonetheless it is enough

            to survive with. Here, now- take my warm

            hands and trace my pulseless wrists. Does

            it make sense yet? The living body reeking

            of formaldehyde? The dead body laughing

            at the dinner table? Look at my heart,

            bleeding but not beating, and define life.

            Look at my arms, empty but holding,

            and define death. Hard, isn’t it? The poem

            on the futility of words. The canary singing

            a song of carbon monoxide. The moon

            reflecting the light of a black hole. The dead

            rising from their graves, not to devour you,

            but to say sorry. You still don’t understand-

            that’s fine. Find me in the graveyard where

            no one I know is buried, my toes digging

            into the stolen dirt, reading a book as I perch

            on my own headstone, waiting to be eaten.

            I’ll trade you understanding in exchange for

            the impossible. It’s not that hard to get if

            you know where to look. Just close your

            eyes, say a prayer, and picture a world

            where we actually get what we want.

OPEN CASKETS AND OTHER IMPOSSIBILITIES