poem in which i ponder the use of writing poems, i still can't say i'm sure
i spend all of my days searching for things that can never exist
the sound of a cat’s footsteps, the breath of a fish, unconditional love and
none of it matters.
the nature of the universe is like that of a blanket being forcibly shook out,
each and every fiber unaware of how they are woven into a larger whole,
the pattern of which obscured to those who make it up.
i think i am like god in the sense that my benevolence is defined
by my inclination to allow spiders to live, so that they might
kill other, more irritating bugs. i know, i am such a good person.
otters hold hands when they sleep so they don’t drift apart
and i’m wondering if you would also be interested in this.
what is the titantic now? other than the iceberg that sunk it.
even though there are wolves at the table,
i ice my nose until it numbs, so that when i place my muzzle in your palm
you might mistake me as an animal worth loving.
what i’m saying is: the world has always been ending,
but this time feels different. the scientists are afraid and
i am too. what difference does that make? i still have to live
as if tomorrow will certainly come.
what i’m saying is: i have never written a good poem.
nothing i make can excuse the atrocities i’ve committed.
but that is still the dream, the hope i cling to.
Zoë Blair-Schlagenhauf is still trying to figure out what she is. She makes things in Los Angeles.