To the brink

(in response to February 20th Street, a poem by Hugo Williams)

In the blink of an eye

I was bought to the brink of my sanity,

I had folded back my perception,

like an eager eagle eye,

suctinising details within detail.

How long can my eyes withstand this bright glare,

this naked revelation beyond perceptions.

I cannot bear the brink of discovery,

the heat of light, the vile feeling of discovering,

to know what death is,

this I do not, cannot discover yet,

best to put it off.

My mortal casing was made to sit safely from the brink,

it's fabric would tarnish from intimacy of the white blue hot fingers beyond.

I wish now I had avoided the brink,

I am marked eternal,

I wish not to discover but to cover again,

with the cool dark blanket of not knowing

and not knowing about knowing.

Take me to the brink, the edge. To look in, over, down. To step into, across, through. Brink. Bringer. Of ink. Of brine. Salt water flowing through my veins, at one with the sea, flowing, flowing, flowing, to and fro, back and forth, in and out. Reciprocity, exchange. Who gives, who takes. Endless stream of charity, of kindness. Giving and taking inextricably linked. My sister speaks of givers and takers. She sees herself as a giver, whereas me and my other sister are takers in her eyes. It is clear, permanently defined, to her; we are branded by her need. She does not see, acknowledge, value what we give. She does not see what she takes or the shit she gives. She is pristine, untouchable in her high edifice. Bring this closer to home. My sister lies also in me. My blinkers to what others give me, relegating it to minor whilst exalting my own exertions and labours. “The things I do for you”, I hear my mother’s voice echoing now in my own complaints, my own neediness, my own insatiable desire to be given to, or rather to receive. So much I am given I do not receive, or only skim the surface with a think flat pebble of attention, of meagre gratitude. There is a whole deep pool, an ocean, to dip my toes into, to feel rise up my weary calves, cooling, embracing, beckoning me in further, deeper still. Come quench my limbed thirst, reaching always, trying to hold onto. The waters swaddle, no need to reach. Simply paddle, a gentle stirring of arms and feet, small circular comforts. Holding me lovingly in your tidal breath. Where am I going with this now? I am at an edge, a brink. I fear. I pull back. What lies beyond? I fear to know myself further, deeper, my longing to be immersed, swathed, return to the womb. The still, quiet resting place of the earth, or the pumping, throbbing liquid centre from which I can emerge anew. Stronger, from my cocoon, blood forcing into wings unfurling. Outstretched, glinting in the light, I spread myself before you. I inhale. I rise. I step across the edge into the vast unknown, the breath, into flight.