Adiabatic Theorem

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A light bell

the weight

the scent of almonds dangling kite tails

from the spine of a Foehn wind

before the rapid descent of a katabatic Oroshi

voids the gullied rain shadow

 

A bird invades a larch tree

rapid backstroke of wings replicates

the sound of playing cards

clothes pinned to my bicycle spokes – Harley rumble

my green-hand-me-down-Schwinn

strategically placed by you, my sister,

to be run over by Dad’s truck

twisted paralyzed and silent

How could I betray you

after you confessed?

 

After you confessed

that it was you who threw me out of the truck window at 40 mph

an infant stone, I hit dirt – rolled along the roadside

the scar on my left frontal arch

now slips into crow’s feet

 

Who knows what pebbles of lies are caught

in the crop of birds caught

by the larch tree caught

by the wind caught

by my ear and the spider that crawls

from hair to hair on my gossamer arm – an evening glove of magic

the spider – silent to my ears – but my hair hears her humming

songs of truth while she weaves while

she climbs my alpine shoulder, my meadow nape of neck

 

How could I betray you?

After the intimacy of struggle?

The weave of swallowed words?

 

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Click here to read Suzanne Rancourt on the origin of the poem.

 

Image: “Nicole on the hill dark” by Rob King, licensed under CC 2.0

Suzanne Rancourt:
Truth: What do we do with it? Is it a new truth? An old truth? Who will it change? Or perhaps, it will change nothing. What do we do with the truths that change nothing?

As an Artist, a writer and human being, I can bear witness to these truths to acknowledge their existence, and the fact that something – an event – occurred and not only do I acknowledge and validate this truth, I will speak of this truth in a way that changes us.

As a writer, an Artist, I hope that my observations from a variety of perspectives initiates conversation about whatever the poem inspires among readers. Difficult conversations are essential to build and support any community, any relationship.

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