Poem by Risa Denenberg
Photo by Elvira Vila
In the wing flap of a fly
“I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world;
finding it so much like myself.”
-–The Stranger, Albert Camus
Being is a comma, a tiny curve-shape
that restrains the onslaught briefly, knowing
the sentence will not be halted long. A single
wing flap of a buzzing fly lasts 3 milliseconds.
I am a curve-shaped detour that stems nothing
and no one. I try to see the sentence written
without the comma, lives lived without commas.
Still, I long to exhume a site where it is possible
to stop and reflect. Not everyone lives in recovery
mode, not everyone hopes to live forever.
But healing is a strange craze. You believe
you’ve improved, when really, no revision spawns
progress and no viewpoint proves a truth.
There is no one to mourn.
I hold some faith in seasons and epochs—
corn stalks mowed into earth, Hannah’s
quiet praise echoed in the Magnificat,
millennia of human acts, none particular.