Poetry: To Complete In A World That Undoes All Things, by Jack J (MATURE CONTENT)

a rebirth in 5 parts

part 1: your part

pass to me your fingerbones and a handful
of filaments
wrapped in milky petals peeled alive
and I will listen so
you tell me how loud
you scream
when this earth burns
into melted knots, and the universe – herself, a bestial discarded thing – backs us
up
into corners. the crevices of our own hands.

part 2: and I will do mine

I will listen to you sing so
you scream.

part 3: our part

that is the closest thing we have to peace
threading our fingerbones together
with filaments, yours wrapped warm in milky petals
mine wrapped cold in skin
because the heat in mine already escaped, like peace escaping from things that can’t complete on their
own, like filaments hoping to tie together all that is left, your hand feels so warm, it is, then, in a burning
world, safe. safe, only because my hand is so cold, it is, then, dangerous. the milky film of the universe
begins to swirl into the shapes we know. people, completing each other. the closest thing we have to
peace lives in those moments. moments where dangerous hands become safe.

part 4: her part

those pieces of the ocean – herself, the most beautiful composer – can sing
the song her mother wrote
in her deeply youthful voice
completing the waves as they travel forwards
and their ghostly ends retreat
– completing us.
in those corners I find no place to retreat
so I burrow. the crevices of our own hands. the
forever holes
in your fingers like flutes.

part 5: thank you

we will scream and so you sing
– that is the closest thing we have to peace
when you murder me, and I can be born again
bleeding some togetherness
of our blood
and when we as close as
the closest things can be – when we complete each other
and those crevices hum with light
the universe and the ocean
the discarded and the beautiful alike
become so dark a conceding feast
below our forever upwards motion
– that is the closest thing we have to peace.