Volume 6, July 2012

Serena ChopraView Contributor’s Note

from Livid Season

A day is a single day.

Driven by the inertia and mass of water—
has the flesh been compensated?

The water meets inside us, around us,
in clouds, in the moon,
in a flood.

The parameters are skin, bricks, a shore.

The water breaks
the shore.

The sun is heaviest in the sky,
the highest is noon,
derived from Latin, “nona hora,” the ninth hour
of the day, and is related
to the liturgical term, none.

After nine months, nothing.

I stood in the shade, afraid
of the high light, the wide and empty noon,
none could find a voice, none
had cast a shadow.

The moon, in opposition, in fetal position
could not resist the tight fist of night,
and crazed the pacing bodies

I became a mess of morning. I have fallen
pace-less in my limbs, a swift
of hair against the early fan.

This is not death,
this is the oviduct
it swells through.

A season is cool if it has to be, a night
is cool from the rain. I am taken
into the palm of these elements
and given possible courses of action.

Render imminent.
Render myself a translation.

If I must leave, I must be misunderstood.

These bones are constructed in the form of aching,
and these eyes carry the burden of light. To see
is lightness. I am assuming the stance of a desert, an ocean
emptied and realized
in rhythmite.

A rhythm might use its will.

We await skyscrapers
and rise.

From up here,
I only see my child
inside the furious waves.

i Wikipedia search: Noon