Phyllis Perlstone, ‘The equation’
Mass and energy cannot be created or destroyed. But each can be
converted into the other. What I had can disappear into something
that has nothing to do with me.
So not to fear to love
should be easy. To love a plant that might die, a child that I might
hurt, a child that could hate me, a bright day that could turn into
an empty dull one, should not be so hard.
A human being in time can’t see yesterday, can’t see light
on the dark side of the moon. Venus could create a cloud of mist
to cover her child from his enemies. When in their midst. But
mystifying him could make her son call out to her to throw off her
disguises. Could make him criticise her.
I can see it’s the light on things outside
that pins this green winged insect to rest here – this spoon shaped
small body with panniers of see-through ovals, the wings that have
stopped swinging. I help it to flutter from point to point over the
glass until it’s on the wooden frame and then outside. Or is it? Is it
free? The disappearance is so sudden. I can’t see if it’s safe or if the
rush of air when I open the door has blown it back inside.
Out there an orchid is blooming – a
triangle within a circle of triangles. The circle radiates veins to the
inner triangle. I bring the orchid indoors. The veins are quieter.
The triangle they lead to should be struck into music – it’s pink on
paler pink. But now it is losing definition. It is too delicate to stretch
If I lose the love of, feel the hurt of – what is it
– the thing that hurts? Nothing comes back quickly enough not
to be missed. Is it something on time, or in time? I don’t know the
conversion for time.