Solange’s
Trance, What is Nearest to Us and What is
Remote From Us
As I
floated
I
felt no longer steered
but
taken as some target
hung
naked from an outer sphere—
I
cared nothing for
my
rotting hair or swollen flesh
as
sea-mist splashed my sponge-like skin
pushing
me further where I pleased
into
perpetual spins and tide-heaves
I
absorbed the nearness of turbid waters
and
the remoteness of forgotten lands.
Yet
the storm woke me with ecstatic contact
and
like a floating particle in the moon’s spotlight
eternalizing
the cosmic ebb and flow
as
nights passed while stars shone;
I
bathed in the Play of the
Deranged,
tempest-infused churned into black
devouring
red glows, entranced in static wreckage
of
body forms bent bow backs
a
dreaming where drowned men
sometimes
goes down,
I
found myself
standing
on the stage of
The
Two Masks
and
as I watched my skin glisten white
refracted
through rows of
bobbing
balls of eyes
I
lifted the string of pearls
above
my black curled hair
and
felt the pull of
unfathomably
mysteries haunting
my
soul, fragile organisms reflecting
my
inherited defects, the many
monsters
of my future’s expectation,
there
is always silence before the claps,
like
crashing waves, sinking in
the sand of humanly relief.
