Gravitational Lift
©September 20th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
It’s not the clock whose hands move
Round and round and round,
Making you dizzy, as you watch,
Impassive, passive, sitting still.
It’s not the lines that begin to spread
On the back of hands, and tug the sides
Of the mouth earthward, loosen your hair
Of the weight of color, and send tendrils
Flying every which way, as you
Look outward, the edges of your field of vision
Misting grayly, as everything leaches out
Into a dream-field, and things trickle in –
Everything flowing both ways.
It’s not the smudging of the world
As you struggle to make sense out of things
Which cease to have meaning,
Where everything was air-clear before.
It’s not any of this, at all.
When the trek downhill
Makes your feet go faster,
And your breath comes out
In quick pants, fighting with laughter,
And you try and dig in your heels,
But the pull of gravity
Is irresistible, and the taste of home,
Delicious and inevitable,
And yet, you miss all the places you’ve been,
And you miss everyone and everything,
And forgive everyone and everything,
And you mourn all that has been,
And all that will never be again,
And you know that newness
Will overtake you, and you welcome it,
While you fight it, always,
And you suddenly spread out
Your arms in pretend flight –
It is that of which I speak.
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