A part is not the whole,
but apart from it and merely
a part. The glass filament
is not glass though it reflects
light just the same.
When under a microscope,
the thin thread is a Great Lake shore
in winter when the waves want
for warmth and yet do not freeze,
reflecting the sun upon glassy surfaces
but not sun itself.
Motion is constant until
it is not, just as the body’s live
stillness requires the movement
of muscle, stretching and contracting
a syncopation of that living instrument
until it stops its singing.
Glass filaments break when
knitted to bind the broad cloth
of our living.
Tension, bending, and friction
must happen at the same time,
for if they are singular actions
then the thread merely stretches,
bends, creates heat,
and a stitch.
But when all the forces happen
in a single moment, the filament
finally fractures against God’s palm.
I am satisfied with my conclusions:
You strained towards the northern sky,
and I towards the southern coast.
In concert, we looped and pulled tight
those pained strings, bending them
until the heat caught fire and ravaged
what bound our bodies.
Simultaneously, we broke.
Now, under the microscope
we are icy waves and identical
in appearance and composition.
I am a part and you are a part
and we are apart from one another.
Neither of us is
© Ami Mattison
For One Stop Poetry's Sunday Picture Prompt Challenge
Photo courtesy of Roger Allen Baut