The Impossible Time Line
maternal, fraternal twin poems about time
I. Leda. december, 2022
How do you know
that you’re alive?
Is it the beating of your pulse
or the itch in your eye?
Is it the mess that you leave
a pile of dishes in the sink?
Is it the burning desires that move you
to eat and drink — survive, thrive, live and think?
Do you know it by sound
in the intimate voices of lovers?
Or is it something you found
in the comforting warmth of others?
Does it come from the past
colored vivid in memories?
Or is it here now in your skin
vibrating masses of boundless energies?
Is there any difference, really?
If this human form can call to any time,
any place,
any experience
lived or dreamt,
then is there any time at all?
They talk about theories way up in small corners
where they have big conversations.
A string, or something with
quarks, physics, words piling on more words
created to communicate
what we all know for certain
what we feel,
the only things that are real.
The string finally makes sense to me now,
The expanding
bending
looping
swooping
circling
e r r a t i c
movements of time
Is there any such thing
as a perfect line?
II. Helena and Clytemnestra. december, 2023
Time’s line cannot be followed in our human minds. The more we try to identify a direction, dimension — forwards or behind — the farther away any comprehension lies. Our time is not meant to be spent, wasted, counted nor monetized. It only exists because we’ve given it a name, perceived its being through our mind’s eye. A lens of control, a need to understand, sort, and order all that is destined to fall apart. Nature’s only law is disorder.
Like a gemini mind, the little molecules that bind every threading of existence grow bored over time. Seeking new adventures they find a way to unwind, unraveling the seams, structures, products, ideas that were believed to be certain and strengthened through the years.
But entropy answers to no one.
She acts on her own, crumbling order, forever returning to the unknown. Because of her, we are delighted to have no guarantees. We can journey on these unexpected lives we enter, to love, heal, share, and grieve.
And when the time comes,
we all will leave.
And time will hold no relevance,
the clocks will stop
when entropy finally grows tired
of the old tick-tock.
But always there will be…
waves ceaselessly beating against the shores
rocks hurling across space
expanding rings in the trees
a cycle or life
though not the one we know
something else, i hope better
more aligned with entropy’s flow
we’ve done all that we could
with all we’ve misunderstood
and we continue on.
Our presence alone is
a seed for growth
a mark to be incorporated
into this ever-
expanding bending looping swooping circling erratic
perfect line.