How It Happens

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

whole.

© Ami Mattison

For One Stop Poetry's Sunday Picture Prompt Challenge

Photo courtesy of Roger Allen Baut