Identical Valleys
I
Frustration, a long and winding word I apologize for using in this poem, has driven me mad with the urge to break something. The options are replete — a porcelain bowl and a glass cup are just beside me, and my phone is just as close. But see how I elect to throw a pillow, and then a book, instead.
I wonder where the urge comes from. The Holy Bible, perhaps? Moses slamming hard against a rock till it gushes with water?
It’s logical enough. Something breaks and release follows.
In the bathroom, to clear my head, the mirror reflects the portrait of a coward. But is cowardice really a horrible mode? Isn’t it why I’m still here? I, too spineless to break a fucking bowl, cannot possibly break my own life.
II
I dip the bowl into soapy water and run it over with a sponge. I wish I could do the same with my life, you know? Place it in a bowl of existential soap and scrub away! But we both know this is a dream, we have both read Awoonor who posits-
“the affairs of this world are like the chameleon feces”, unamenable to soap.
I’ve attended enough wakes to know death, however, is an ultimate cleanser. The living, robed in white, gather in a small room and sanitize the memory of the dead. The wicked are rewritten as strict, the indifferent as tough lovers.
So, why haven’t I written a note, poured myself a cup of bleach and left my life behind, if I wanted, so deeply, to be clean.
