my construct cup experience |
I struggled to bend my mind into a pleasing shape— one that captured words weaving them into a simple enough lace that the empty spaces spoke, crying out my answer to a word. I edged the pattern with the forbidden coming as close as I could to meaning without shouting it to the world— it is far more difficult to gather another’s words and mesh them seamlessly in with my own at times their colors are too bright to blend. I bound in the ends checking double checking rechecking that every seam was clean— there is beauty even on the back of a pattern where no one is meant to see, tangles loosen the words make them lose rhythm and falter. I gathered poems together— sometimes the words flowing as free as silk through a needle, sometimes as painfully as blood from my fingertips, but as the days passed the bloody pages felt as beautiful as the polished because I had done it. I let my words go— out into the world where I could no longer call them back, and then I read marveled at how different minds create different lace from the same pattern. I could never have shaped words to the poems I read, and that was rightly done. line count: 50 |