Dyslexic, yet I

write too much, the same frayed ends,

or should that be ‘to much’ –

you may read it either way;

we write to much the same ends,

 

frayed or otherwise,

words fight in and out of lines,

inverted figures

find phonetic paradigms,

their function or form explored,

 

mirrors’ true presence

is not full accuracy,

but faults framing truths;

falsehoods framing the candor

seen through each being’s flip-side,

 

I read b’s and d’s

as pregnant friends back to back,

mutual support

written in their spines leaning,

reaching up like trunks of trees

 

as they overlap

in the prism of my eye

into shapes of sounds,

but sounds move on every wind,

rebelling against stasis

 

never to stay still,

errors are letters moving,

eras are letters

moving, shifting, reflecting

to confront each paradox,

 

sight distorts each phrase

as our terms debate their turns,

words have their own force

honed by eras of errors

yet manifest before us,

 

before shapes in sand,

wave, gust, sparks of oxygen,

the voice; the big bang;

the vibration in the void

that decided to become,

 

There, function or form

explored mirrors true presence,

grammar and spelling

contort, illuminating

confusions many dismiss,

 

yet, in bafflement

we create alternatives,

opposing judgements

know refracted light conceives

colour, poems, history,

 

this quick dyslexic

seeks to keenly challenge states,

(seeks too keenly too)

to challenge states of exile

as she wields these weighty tools,

 

too mighty for me;

these alphabets measure acts

as we mold ourselves

to mighty hopes still carving

new languages of reason.

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch