Rajinderpal S. Pal - inertia

“Well, there are many ways of being held prisoner.” Anne Carson

if we rest here long enough
on this blue diamond window-seat
perhaps the morning will remake
the angled rooftops of bungalows—
clay red, slate grey—
the pyramid tops of arbour day spruce trees will gleam golden
moths will disappear from around streetlights
other windows will brighten at their edges
front doorways unbolt
car ignitions turn
and the street will resume its daily routine
of departure and return

and on every front landing
the morning paper will repeat an old story
of a pending war
built on rhetoric and conjecture
no attention to consequence

i was surprised when you called
years earlier we had needed each other’s failures for atonement
i had carried my life in a black note-book
and you wore a new religion
like the imprisoned forger
going blind
and calculating the exact number of steps
to a pin across the room

we were bound by the limitations
of mouths and hands
you read emancipation into my poems

all we can escape from or into is ourselves

the immigrant leaves one country for another
then tries to recreate what was left behind—
incense, festive lights, silver ankle bracelets
framed photographs of patriarchs

we leave one love for another
with the same needs and desires
the same patterns of dilation and closure
what we imagine as our one true chance at happiness

a friend who thought her pregnancy
her one hope for a companion
at the funeral for the stillborn child
asks but am i still a mother?

perhaps the quiet of the street
will be disturbed
by the late morning song of small birds
a stop on some migratory route

letter carriers and couriers
gas metre readers, charity workers
perform what must be half the world’s toil
to collect and then relay

if we rest here long enough
perhaps schoolchildren will trudge home
their packs heavy with the day’s learning
unfinished snacks
pebbles from the playground
smuggled home for a fish tank

the floor lamps will be lit by a timer
to give the appearance of lived-in space—
lights, a cello song on a kitchen radio
a mailbox emptied by neighbours

if we rest here long enough
a late afternoon sunbeam
will strike the crystal bowl
and splinter into tiny rainbows
on the ceiling and the wall

if we rest here long enough
the windows will become mirrors