Poetry of Maria Theuma.
Image by the IotL Magazine
It Wasn’t the Rabbits, Running Through the Fields of Burning Grass
or even the lone, giant sky, turning away from our sentimentality
embarrassed by how obvious it all was.
Someone walked me to the edge of a map.
I was beyond what could be recovered from the muddy sediment
and the cavernous winds, whistling in my ears.
It wasn’t even that funny, the first time round
but then, it sharpened itself against the truth of being a person
and the bottom fell out of under us
like a bird, shaken from a tree.
My friends’ faces hovered in a series of small, glazed tiles on a screen.
We discussed the end of the world
and everything in our lives so far had been so finite, it felt odd to discover new endings.
For the most part
coping is unremarkable
like finding the location on the back of a postcard.
But, sometimes, it’s like travelling into the past
and generating a time warp so gorgeous
it compels the entire world to reset
creating a history so fresh, it isn’t even history yet
in which Da Vinci oversleeps and is late for the first day of the Renaissance
and Camus, at his desk, chews nicotine gum
and thinks about many different heavens
and you are left stranded on a distant hillside
where you meet me in my inverse — a little girl.
this is borrowed allegory
and she is unspectacular magic.
Like all beginnings, she is small
but the brand new stories grow and widen
like glittering shards of rumour swirling around an underworld
and, for a while, you listen
before the world gasps again.
The anticlimax of survival is the most heartbreaking.
We drown in reasons, our seas are strewn with them
but it is not enough.