The Possibility
Last
night I thought about the possibility. Stinging eyes wet from memories and
thoughts. Palms sweaty from the indescribable twist of the stomach. Lips, downwards
and trembling. Brows furrowed so deeply my head begins to hurt. The
possibility. The possibility of us. The dead have risen. The dead are rising. Six
million. Six million ones. If every minute one died in twelve years, that would
be six million. But not twelve- not one minute, one dead, twelve years, six
million. Four. Four years, six million. Six million worlds. Six million
legacies vanished into thick, suffocating air. An air filled with souls. Souls
that could have been worlds. Souls that could have been more. And now they are
but a toxic air, rising to the heavens. The possibility. The possibilities…
Note: The poet that I chose (Upile Chisala) writes a lot about the impossibility of a surviving ancient culture. Though she is not referring to Judaism, she inspired me to consider my religion and to think about the oppression in relation to survival. She also writes many of her poems in prose, dancing on the faded line of what makes a poem a poem.
I know the concept of a soul is abstract but as this is more of a poem on Judaism and religion, I thought it would be fitting
ReplyDeleteI think this poem is creative in its design and outline. I like how you used varied sentence structure that builds off each other. That being said, there are certain moments when I thought there were inconsistencies in what you were saying. "But not twelve" it is unclear how you got to the number twelve. I think that if you take out some of the extra words it would be better.
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