It is the opposing thumb of horror
that makes the grasp of ecstasy firm.
The heady cascading collapse of self,
lost amid the almost smothering fumes
of triumph hard won or justice late arrived,
this brief abduction, this oft-craved amnesia,
is ushered in and out of the moment
on nausea like a wave that crests, retching.
What if history cannot be freed of sorrow
without awe made homeless as well?
It is the scar tissue that grows to seal
the split seams of a heart entirely broken
that with the selfsame trick leave it larger.
About the Poem
This poem dreams of a possible world in which everything that we dread or fear or avoid could somehow be snuffed out. But we might likely find that the cost of such a world is the absence of miracles.
This poem is previously unpublished in print. This poem was finished June 11, 2013.