A fractal face in a
the tremble of my lip matches
Bitten, the inside of my cheek
to oozing wounds that flow from my nose;
raw sniffs that hold back
Salt--that is the concrete of my shell,
that blessed tell,
of a whole, that is finally wrung out.
betrays my body with its symmetry--
I know not these unplanned surfeits--
how to stop one part, one curve, one angle from
mirroring the other in cat-curling
A riptide of orderly emotion, can it be?
It creates another me--
facet-twinned, the opposite of erratic.
Each pore harks to the next, it’s mate,
in grief’s fractally perfect state.
Poet’s Notes: There is a certain progression in pain. Having lived with Recurrent Depressive Disorder all my adult life, I have now learned to tell and even quantify the onset of symptoms. They happen in a systematic, geometric, almost Fibonacci sequence of perfection. The mental anguish is mirrored in double by the physical anxiety, and both add up with mathematical precision to a breaking down of the body’s reserves. Truly, there is a beautiful symmetry in even the most excruciating pain.