Ode to Other People’s Realities
As far as I can tell,
the only thing you have in common
is your dedication to remaining
Is this achievement effortless,
or does it require perpetual exertion,
the drudge-song of the “other”:
And do you collaborate on this,
or is it every one of you for itself?
If you were even incrementally less
different from or more similar to me,
I might have been spared
decades of disequilibrium.
I’ve contemplated some kind of
preemptive strike against you.
Other times, it’s been
“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?.”
But lately, I’ve been losing
interest in both of us,
turning my attention
to the Fathomless Space Between,
first of the world’s natural wonders.
it swells and contracts,
blossoms out and dwindles,
with each of our subtlest gestures.
Even the sparest slice of it serves
to hold us apart
no less unyieldingly
than could every ounce of it
(or perhaps it’s all
by-product, so to speak?),
yet never once has it been
seen or heard, tasted or felt.
Oh, Other People’s Realities!
I’m not much of a drinker,
since I detest the blurry sensation,
of personal dissolve—
but nevertheless, let us pause now,
and raise our hypothetical glasses,
overflowing with emptiness,
to that Fathomless Space Between—
long may it flourish,
all of us.
Claire Bateman | Mudlark No. 44 (2011)
Contents | The Dead