Sometimes when I am seated in a darkened theatre, before the show
begins, I see myself transfigured into a bear, there in the auditorium,
a great shimmering bear, brilliant as projector light beamed
thru red-veined eyelids, ringed in the black of six black holes.
Six black wings crisscross on my back. I fold and unfold like a tesseract,
a bear emerging from a bear. I rise from my seat. I pace in the air
above the audience, altering my size with each step. I roar, and
projector light glints in my teeth. The six black holes encircling me
are barely visible, but measurable because the blazing corona of the bear
repeats its transit across the event horizon of my discarded body.
I stride in the air before the proscenium, stamping my great feet
as though on solid earth, thundering, to gasps from the audience.
The six black wings rattle on my back like nine hundred and ninety-nine
rattlesnakes. This is my rightful form. Mine, and I am beautiful
in this form. But a wound in childhood, barely felt, like the slightest
misalignment of a doorframe, prevents me from achieving it.
begins, I see myself transfigured into a bear, there in the auditorium,
a great shimmering bear, brilliant as projector light beamed
thru red-veined eyelids, ringed in the black of six black holes.
Six black wings crisscross on my back. I fold and unfold like a tesseract,
a bear emerging from a bear. I rise from my seat. I pace in the air
above the audience, altering my size with each step. I roar, and
projector light glints in my teeth. The six black holes encircling me
are barely visible, but measurable because the blazing corona of the bear
repeats its transit across the event horizon of my discarded body.
I stride in the air before the proscenium, stamping my great feet
as though on solid earth, thundering, to gasps from the audience.
The six black wings rattle on my back like nine hundred and ninety-nine
rattlesnakes. This is my rightful form. Mine, and I am beautiful
in this form. But a wound in childhood, barely felt, like the slightest
misalignment of a doorframe, prevents me from achieving it.
© Adam Wilson
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Paul Vermeersch is a poet, multimedia artist, literary editor, and educator who lives in Toronto, Canada. He is the author of seven poetry collections, most recently Shared Universe: New and Selected Poems 1995-2020. He is the senior editor of Wolsak and Wynn Publishers where he created the poetry and fiction imprint Buckrider Books. His next collection of poems, NMLCT, is scheduled to be published by ECW Press in fall 2025.
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