poetry

the double singularity

To the order
of things
he was
a quirk,
a kink
in the quantum
bending
the universe back
upon itself
like cosmic origami
that duplicated
his solitude
and doubled
his loneliness
in one
overlapping
point
of inescapable
chaos.

It felt
at times
as if
there might be
two of him,
and yet
none
of him
at all.

He was
what one might call
a “double singularity”
if one
had an
eye
for string theory
and a yen
for verbal
irony.

So
imagine then
how jarring,
how daunting
it was
for him
when he felt
the matter
of his being
tremble
from a
great
distance;
vibrate
with immodest
recognition
of a kindred;
resonate
with grand
and miniscule
magic
as the underlying
arrangement
of all-being
received
his solitude
and returned it
to him
as
belonging.

Imagine
the
incalculable
intimacy
of finding
a parallel
detachment,
the infinite
dilation
in the discovery
of a corresponding
isolation,
the interminable
sense of wonder
that arrived
as he
witnessed
his own universe
expanding
by a magnitude
of
one.

Of course,
she felt it
too
as hers
did the same.

She was
as much
a quirk
as he,
creased down
the center
in her
seclusion,
forced
to face
herself
at all
times.
She was,
indeed,
something
of a second
double
singularity,
as if
the universe
believed
that one alone
simply wouldn’t
be
enough.

And in one
negligible
moment
during which
she unfolded
and finally looked
beyond
her own
expiring
oblivion,
she saw
him
instead,
at the
exact same
negligible moment
that he
saw her.
He said
something
along the lines of
“You have
delicate
ears,
and I
like
that.”
It was
practically
nothing,
and yet to them
it was
the width
and breadth
and depth
of
entirely
everything.
From this
iota
of dual awareness,
this speck
of simultaneous
acknowledgment,
there exploded
another universe,
one
in which
irony was forbidden,
solitude was abolished,
and the idea
of singularity
had never
occurred.

copyright © 2016 steven luna

Wing and Claw and Hoof and Tail

We walk and we talk on the path growing slim through the trees through the trees with the sky going dim as the gold-gleaming sun gilds the limbs and the leaves and the reeds and the weeds on these mystical eves when the feathering heathering blossoms rush past and the thickets grow thicker to greet us at last and the shadows are rich in this mythical wood where nothing behaves like we’ve learned that it should as we wander and wonder how far we can pass through these snickers and flickers these shimmers like glass of the fairy lights gleaming or maybe they’re eyes and the penny-flutes whistle their beckoning cries through a swirling and curling mysterious mist that spreads an allure too alive to resist or maybe it’s breath from a menacing lung churning bittersweet smoke where the mosses are hung and maybe the scritching scritch-scratching we hear isn’t rabbits a-scamper or sheltering deer or fairies or pixies but something more queer something threatening beckoning lumbering near and our laughter goes silent our mirth chills to fear and it seems now this trek was a horrid idea ill-advised into such ever-darkening parts and the shadows swing low on our questioning hearts and the chittering-chaw of hoof and claw goes skittering-scattering our nerves chafed and raw and the leather of wings that clatter and flap and circle above as we enter the trap of the jaws and the maws that chatter and clack but the road’s disappeared and there’s no turning back so we walk but we walk ever-slower we go while our hearts cry out run! and our feet tell us no! and we try not to cry in our shivering skins with our quivering hands and the madness that spins in our heads in our souls in this spiraling gyre of terrors unseen that collude and conspire and lick at their lips and lash with their tongues and gnash all their teeth and heave with their lungs and they screech and they squeal and they squawk as they stalk pulses shudder and hammer we stumble and clamber as we walk and we walk and we