I don’t know if the sun is already dead. I remember something about stars, gravity, collapsing into darkness, dying if not already gone.
If this is true, we behold the remnants, syphon them for warmth or light or contortion in the aftermath of destruction, or relative to it, the way I draw up a hill, get older or younger, or my spine shrinks.
I overturn rocks the dark sea at night devours. I hold myself to the floor. I don’t know why. I give up wishing, and if I didn’t speak, or think, how creatures have more wisdom, shriek fear at just the right moment, if that existed, itching the word surrender.
Already, you have taken me, consumed the shattering of my psyche, whatever was left of the glow, you use, picking at it for sustenance, as time drifts, this is how I collapse, or the sun, or stellar evolution, and we are alive and warm or cold and dead or both, feeding off each other, never knowing when to stop.
Louise Mather is a writer from Northern England and founding editor of Acropolis Journal. A finalist in the Streetcake Poetry Prize and Nominated Best of the Net, her work is published/upcoming in various print and online literary journals including The North, Acumen, Fly on the Wall Press, Dust Poetry Magazine, Cape and Ink, Sweat and Tears. Her debut pamphlet ‘The Dredging of Rituals’ was out in 2021. She writes about ancestry, rituals, endometriosis, fatigue and mental health. Twitter @lm2020uk IG: louise.mather.uk
photo by Dan Cook (via unsplash)