At dusk, the dusk holds
the days apart. I am also other than
I imagine myself to be. To know this is forgiveness,
Simone Weil wrote at the onset of WWII. Still,
this almost-hour. Its snows. All that I still have
to lose. What grain, what glacier,
what child, what plain
did I hand my emptiness
that I would feel full? Still,
I don’t understand why
we describe it as falling—in orbit,
the satellites going fast enough sideways
that they fall past the earth
as the earth turns from them. As in love,
when I looked you in your face the first time
and understood you too will be impossible
to see to the end. Some days, I think
it would be easier not to know
what I now know. You are a homesickness
buffered by fantasies of orchids, scotch
pines, daybreak. Blue
graves scattered over cities. People
I tried to love
but couldn’t. The cow’s bright eyes
in the fields might’ve been fireflies tonight
had it not been March. The river
cries out from under its hood
of ice. Its mouth a silo. In it,
a perfect silence arrives
after the clamor of breaking. As a child,
only after breaking was my body
believable. Belief gave way
to grief, its purgatories. Who will look out for you
after you are grief enough
to believe in? You
who emerged from me
in the future, where I delivered us, two fragile creatures
lured out into the ryegrass,
the permafrost. And what on earth is lost
that is not lost
fiercely, and on purpose? When I’m dead, still
I’ll dream of you. A rebellion of late snow
I moved toward
without meaning to. A howl of dusk
trembling against me
from within.
the days apart. I am also other than
I imagine myself to be. To know this is forgiveness,
Simone Weil wrote at the onset of WWII. Still,
this almost-hour. Its snows. All that I still have
to lose. What grain, what glacier,
what child, what plain
did I hand my emptiness
that I would feel full? Still,
I don’t understand why
we describe it as falling—in orbit,
the satellites going fast enough sideways
that they fall past the earth
as the earth turns from them. As in love,
when I looked you in your face the first time
and understood you too will be impossible
to see to the end. Some days, I think
it would be easier not to know
what I now know. You are a homesickness
buffered by fantasies of orchids, scotch
pines, daybreak. Blue
graves scattered over cities. People
I tried to love
but couldn’t. The cow’s bright eyes
in the fields might’ve been fireflies tonight
had it not been March. The river
cries out from under its hood
of ice. Its mouth a silo. In it,
a perfect silence arrives
after the clamor of breaking. As a child,
only after breaking was my body
believable. Belief gave way
to grief, its purgatories. Who will look out for you
after you are grief enough
to believe in? You
who emerged from me
in the future, where I delivered us, two fragile creatures
lured out into the ryegrass,
the permafrost. And what on earth is lost
that is not lost
fiercely, and on purpose? When I’m dead, still
I’ll dream of you. A rebellion of late snow
I moved toward
without meaning to. A howl of dusk
trembling against me
from within.
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Chelsea Dingman’s first book, Thaw, won the National Poetry Series (UGA Press, 2017). Her second book, through a small ghost, won The Georgia Poetry Prize (UGA Press, 2020). Her third collection is I, Divided (LSU Press, 2023). She is also the author of the chapbook, What Bodies Have I Moved (Madhouse Press, 2018). As a PhD Candidate at the University of Alberta, her current work draws on research supported by funding from the Social Sciences and Research Council of Canada. Visit her website: chelseadingman.com.
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