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September 9, 2022 Poetry

Then, Unsolving

David Wright

Then, Unsolving photo

So I may never ascend again,
             may never even get out of bed,

may never find my uncharged phone
             in the dark to check

how hurt you were by the fix,
             by the algorithm I invented

to decide if my mouth was too much,
             if my hands were too busy,

if your back and neck would ever
             again be bare and beneath my lips

where I lisp and bite and worry my way
             down the curve of a damaged spine.

Were we vines to be spliced into
             another vine to heal?

No. Were we books to be mended?
             I have sewn a book together once.

I did not do it well. I should have, though, laid,
             merely, myself next to a self on a shelf.

But I opened into righteous helping. I could have
             gone to the library for the new novels

you could fondle and love and return. I did not
             know how our brittle backs might break

when we tried to open one another beyond
             what old stitches can bear.

You, remain unsolved. You were not
             a problem to figure.

I remain dissolved. I was always dust and string.

 

image: Laura Pinto


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