Rising emerged as one was my downfall.
There were no parts but a congealed unit
That announced itself by agreeing.
So I divided and let each part conquer
with its own language,
that came from one word.
They speak of joyful destruction.
And one heals as another pains,
as having simultaneous conversations.
It’s fine, though.
They hear each other
And know the other was itself.
I was not whole,
I was disagreeing sounds
That moved by orchestrated clinging.
Photo from Arlington, VA, by Candace Means