Poem by Risa Denenberg
Photo by Elvira Vila

In the wing flap of a fly
“I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world; finding it so much like myself.”
-–The Stranger, Albert Camus

Being is a comma, a tiny curve-shape
that restrains the onslaught briefly, knowing

the sentence will not be halted long. A single
wing flap of a buzzing fly lasts 3 milliseconds.

I am a curve-shaped detour that stems nothing
and no one.  I try to see the sentence written

without the comma, lives lived without commas.
Still, I long to exhume a site where it is possible

to stop and reflect. Not everyone lives in recovery
mode, not everyone hopes to live forever.

But healing is a strange craze.  You believe
you’ve improved, when really, no revision spawns

progress and no viewpoint proves a truth.
There is no one to mourn.

I hold some faith in seasons and epochs—
corn stalks mowed into earth, Hannah’s

quiet praise echoed in the Magnificat,
millennia of human acts, none particular. 

Back        •        Home        •        Next