Sunday, 25 October 2015

Sunday Poem

The smallest cut has the fewest needs,
least of all attention. The largest cut's
requirements surpass our abilities.
It is impossible to find unless stumbled
upon, and then proves challenging to categorize.
Recognizable as flesh, is not slash or butterfly,
lance or scrape; neither prepared event or accident.
It exists between, a split not quite in twain.
The largest cut possesses unreachable depths
and blind, frightening fish. It's unlimited closets,
hidden attics, shakes with captured wind
from flapping birds' wings. To call it a sinkhole
wouldn't be totally wrong. The smallest cut
is your childhood and every memory a splinter.
The largest cut is your unused potential, a void
beckoning with ancestral moans like everything
you couldn't say, and everything you did.
By Allison LaSorda, from Playdate (Anstruther Press, 2015). 

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