I’ve been thinking about the turtles all the way down in the last post. There is a sort of faith or trust in the turtle underneath you. Whatever that turtle might actually be. And I suppose that some would say “whomever that turtle might be”.
Beyond the naming of the turtle, though, lies the sensation of infinity. What might that feel like? When the experience is a postive one, wow (I mean to say dang!) what a glow, you suppose? But what if that experience of infinity is not positive? What if something so dark and toxic were to come into your life and you cannot shake it off?
Do we have to name what that toxic event or experience before another person could feel the infinite despair? This is a poem of mine that was first published in Fifth Wednesday Journal
. It’s a print journal so the poem cannot be read on the internet, but still, you might want to check out this link because *blush*
it seems to me they publish some stirring work.
On Naming Her Twelve Hundred Months
For example, she gets August and Tuesday mixed up
and she’d like to name the next month Caesar. Julius
after that. I sense that she prefers infinity, avoiding
things that go around and come back again- which is why
her father asked my mother to tell me the least I could do
is write to her, maybe apply for a visitor’s pass.
I show her the piano in the day room with white keys named
one through eighty-eight. Octaves don’t exist. She skips
the scales we learned as kids but plays killer
ragtime blues. Speaking of music and Tuesday,
my puppy stops barking when I say things
like Excuse me, or Ruby Tuesday, or when I sing the blue
shoe song she likes. Layla is the Irish Setter I rescued
from the pound. Her previous owner gave her up
because she’s afraid of a rifle going off, bullets
in a barrel, the click from a trigger’s pull, the sounds
of hunting season, the sound September makes.