Poem by Risa Denenberg
Photo by Elvira Vila
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. |