I Could Tell You. {poetry}
By Tasha Raella Chemel.
I could tell you that I am a falcon
wings clipped
But incompletely
I have tasted flight.
I could tell you that my jailer
Watches as my lips
spin dregs of water
from damp cloth.
He has a penchant for mirrors
And I have begun to wonder
whether I have conjured him
From my madness.
you might say
That I dote on my suffering
too much,
and I would not contradict you.
Or I could tell you that every time I open my eyes,
tiny muscles bunch and tighten.
Light yanks and stretches, chafes and soothes,
without pattern or warning.
I could tell you that a few of those muscles remember
what straightness feels like, what looseness feels like,
what being rocked and held feels like.
My eye-fingers try to reach, reflexively,
like babies’ fingers reach, but they have forgotten.
They are webbed and numb; they brush only ghosts.
I could tell you that my numbness is as elusive as the pain,
a gray moss that confines itself to unwanted places.
And you could say that you are immune to my magic
That my story is as round as any condemned dreamer’s story:
You wish for release,
yet you cannot plead your case
without resorting to metaphor.
I would not defy you.
*****
Tasha Raella Chemel is an artist and writer who is currently student-teaching at a Big Picture school. When she isn’t at the pottery studio, she enjoys reading critical theory, seeking out the perfect chai latte, and overanalyzing pop culture. She lives in Winooski, Vermont. You can contact Tasha via email or Facebook.