Bath

For I find the adiaphoric boring

While the euphoric crumbles

In divine collapse

As all exordiums are bound to ensure being

insecure in partially dried concrete foundations.

Distill me from serenity

to algid trenches or

petrifying solitude.

It’s within, within - 

The self is the key.

-Annie Corinne, 2012

Illumination

The trouble I face in resisting temptation

Is fear it may never pass again.

-

But if that was my Season in Hell,

is this my Illumination?

-

Sea air burns through blistered lungs

Before it only soothed - (only soothed)!

Tenderized by Eastern rooms,

and barred appropriation -

-

So if that was my Season in Hell,

Is this my Illumination?

-

The flight I mistook as tranquility

However could this be?

It’s no surprise, (time after time),

truth’s not readily clear to me.

-

But today I wait no longer

For it has already come

-

And if that was my Season in Hell

Is my this Illumination?

- Annie Corinne, 2011

Consolation

Darwin.

They say he read novels to relax,

But only certain kinds:

nothing that ended unhappily.

If anything like that turned up,

enraged, he flung the book into the fire.   

-

True or not,

I’m ready to believe it.

-

Scanning in his mind so many times and places,

he’d had enough of dying species,

the triumphs of the strong over the weak,

the endless struggles to survive,

all doomed sooner or later.

He’d earned the right to happy endings,

at least in fiction

with its diminutions.

-

Hence the indispensable

silver lining,

the lovers reunited, the families reconciled,

the doubts dispelled, fidelity rewarded,

fortunes regained, treasures uncovered,

stiff-necked neighbors mending their ways,

good names restored, greed daunted,

old maids married off to worthy parsons,

troublemakers banished to other hemispheres,

forgers of documents tossed down the stairs,   

seducers scurrying to the altar,

orphans sheltered, widows comforted,

pride humbled, wounds healed over,

prodigal sons summoned home,

cups of sorrow thrown into the ocean,   

hankies drenched with tears of reconciliation,

general merriment and celebration,

and the dog Fido,

gone astray in the first chapter,

turns up barking gladly

in the last.

-

by Wisława Szymborska

GOAT.

---

Let’s try the self-depreciation tactic.

I learned it from my mother, her attempts to avoid rejection,

(its opposite, too far to even fantasize on—

Acceptance, that is).

Maybe she learned it from hers in turn,

That cruel woman I never knew, whose

Blood pumps through my heart, whose

Fears hold fast to my gametes, an epigenetic virus, whose

Curses rage on, powerful, stubborn, desperate.

We try to other me, but I am too alike you

In my wonder of what could have been,

Imprisoned in self-sabotaging, nostalgic regret.

You’re sure to not believe me, in my

Cynicism and fractured naïveté, but this means

I am The Eternal Optimist, smothered by

Hope as the means of suicide.

So, bless me! Anoint me with oils! I am your

Noble scapegoat! Deferential yet, defensive.

Fearless, until I reach your altar of sacrifice—

Where I panic.

They are on your side, insatiable as they gobble

Up lies, beg the Gods (their attempt at prayer) to

Relieve them of their despair, to take this offering and

Their trespasses, without a glimmer of forgiveness.

Your methods of persuasion are powerful (eating lies helps

Repress the gag reflex, I hear). My nausea muffles

My worth, so I inch closer toward acceptance.

I deserve to be skinned. Burned. For what good am I

If I cannot relieve your pain?

Of which I am the sole, singular, whole, responsible cause.

——

How did I do? Was that self-effacing sufficient enough to

Alchemize your disdain and resentment into loyalty?

Or, love?

——

I’ll wait.

-Annie Corinne, 2024

---