Memo by Shelly Norris

There is no room for an other

in this tangled bed.  Last night I sat all around

the table, at least five of me, drunk

and incoherent, discussing the complex

in platitudes and formulating simplistic

solutions to the Sphinx’s ancient riddles.

 

Many such meetings have convened—

on the sets, behind the scenes, in secret

internal monologues playing through

static air.  Recently, a lithe young woman

from an unknown country was transformed

to smoke and ash inside the wicker giant.

 

Some of us now agree, we

may be nearing some resolution, which is just a word

one letter removed from sudden and radical

renunciation or the progressive rotation of heavenly

bodies.  Either or both are imminent

and acceptable.  At any rate, we won’t know

 

Until the old woman sitting lotus on the hill

pulling thin gold chains from the world’s

largest knot manages to unravel that last

double hitch, finally undoing the labyrinth.  Not

for all time.

But at least for once and again.

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Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

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