The Opacity of It All

He asked how she could see,
how she peered into 
the truths of the world. 

She left the question to itself for

how do you explain sight?

Is it the process or the premise or

the content of potential and promise?

She'll claim she's as blind as the rest,

let inquires float through conversations. 

But she'll remember that once 

she felt the gossamer of the world,

That She's older than Laughter and Mirth,

younger than Creation and Chaos. 

That She's witnessed the world undone,

unmade, vulnerable, with curves that 

knew no pain, only patience. 

She'll say She has old bones but

Her cage is new, shapeshifting

from one lifetime to the next. 

New materials and scars,

each an improved attempt 

to dull the ache of knowing. 

Fate, forever Her faithful companion,

Her compass as She wanders, 

restless with the weight of it all,

keeps His eyes open for

Timing and Context, those tricksters,

always promise that they're 

right around the corner. 

So when he asks how she *sees*,

she'll hide behind pretty words,

behind wit and curiosity and affection,

because how can she ever explain 

the exhaustion of what she knows.